When Tired Eyes

When tired eyes have writing not within,
When brain is dull, and not much musical,
When paper calls no thought from heavy pen,
And desk and chair, though empty, seem too full,
‘Tis then I seem but half a man indeed,
A bit of wind that has no place to blow,
No seed to ravish, no wave to overthrow—
A lassitude that has no end decreed.
Then, up the rungs of rhyme I do not climb;
The winding ways of fancy veer off far;
My days and hours and minutes are but time
And every star of night is but a star.

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