Page:Prometheus bound - Browning (1833).djvu/192



eyes are weary of surveying The fairest things, too soon decaying; Mine ears are weary of receiving The kindest words—ah, past believing! Weary my hope, of ebb and flow; Weary my pulse, of tunes of woe: My trusting heart is weariest! I would—I would, I were at rest!

For me, can earth refuse to fade? For me, can words be faithful made? Will my embitter'd hope be sweet? My pulse forego the human beat?