And I don’t have the will to live, my heart,
Amidst this kind of worry, and this woe,
Amidst this consciousness—both unknown fears
And known attritions as beleaguer. This
Wearing away of any kind of hope
As if it were illusion. This erosion
That I would have forestalled, I helpless watch
And wish that I might find miraculous
Some touch of grace, as turns the woe to well
By some Divinity inspired; but I
No longer have the will of this subsistence
When all appears undone, futility,
No further shoring up to be accomplished
As time must eat away, devour it all,
All that was hoped for, wished for, willed in youth’s
Perpetual optimism, leaked away
With age and with experience. I have gone
The gamut, and would fain give up the chase
Save that upon my heels in fast pursuit
Come circumstances like a pack of dogs
After its prey, and this is life, my heart.
So many were your sorrows, your travails,
“O, she is gone away” came your lament,
While now I hardly think upon her more
Or other loves relinquished, or the smart
Of anguished yearning midst foreboding gloom,
When I don’t have the will to live, my heart.
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