I
There are grey hours when I drink of indifference; all things fade
Into the grey of a twilight that covers my soul with its sky;
Scarcely I know that this shade is the world, or this burden is I;
And life, and art, and love, and death, are the shades of a shade.
Then, in those hours, I hear old voices murmur aloud,
And memory tires of the hopelessly hoping desire, her regret;
I hear the remembering voices, and I forget to forget;
The world as a cloud drifts by, or I drift by as a cloud.
II
I am weary at heart, yet not weary with sorrow, nor weary with pain;
I would that an eager sorrow returned to me out of the deep;
I could fold my hands in the morning, lie down on my bed again:
Sorrow, angel of Joy, re-awaken my heart from its sleep!
I am wearier than the old, when they sit and smile in the sun,
Dreaming of sorrowful things, grown happy and dim to their sight;
But I dream in the morning, my daylight is over, my day's work done:
I am old at heart, for my sorrow is sleepy, and nods before night,
