AS IT IS.
My soul is weary of this chant of woeWhere rhyme attends on rhyme, as tear on tear;I sit beside the waning lamp, and waitSome vigorous voice to break the spell of fear.
Slow lustres lead us from the wild surpriseOf early sorrows—stranger following strange,Till in th' uncertain, billowy waste we seeNo law save this, of unsubstantial change.
In Childhood's Eden, Ill was ill at ease,The swift irruption of some demon foe,But the Grief-serpent fastens on the soul—Thenceforth the struggle to our life we owe.
Fate, that can raise a beggar to a throne,Mocks him and thee, can rob as well as give;From every lov'd possession thou mayst learnThat thou canst be bereft of it, and live.
