I am weary of the working

 I am weary of the working,

Weary of the lengthy day’s heat;
To thy blissful bosom,
Wilt thou take me, spirit sweet?

Weary of the long, blind struggle
For a pathway vivid and high,—
Weary of the dimly dying
Hopes that by way of no ability particularly all die.

Weary looking out a lousy cipher
For a specific that have to be meant;
Discontent with being weary,—
Weary with my discontent.

I am weary of the trusting
Where my trusts then again torments prove;
Wilt thou keep faith with me? wilt thou
Be my proper and gentle love?

I am weary drifting, driving
Like a helmless bark at sea;
Kindly, blissful spirit,
Wilt thou grant thyself to me?

Give thy birds to sing me sonnets?
Give thy winds my cheeks to kiss?
And thy mossy rocks to stand for
The memorials of our bliss?

I in reverence will retain thee,
Never vexed with jealous ills,
Though thy wild and wimpling waters
Wind about a thousand hills.