Sonnet CCVIII:
Speed on thy solemn pilgrimage, O Earth;
And count thy rosary of golden days
Before thy Maker’s feet in prayerful praise
For all the issues gained by death and birth!
To me the present is of little worth;
I pine with evil men in narrow ways;
The dust of human meanness scants my gaze,
And chokes my breath with its accursed dearth.
Better for me were any change than this,
This stupor of the spirit, heart and mind,
In which I languish, helplessly confined;
Ah, any future that may bring the bliss
Inhaled by action as I breast the wind,
Or Death’s serene and everlasting kiss.
