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.

This entry was posted in Poetry. Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s