O king! what is the quest that evermore
Foredooms thy feet to roam, yet blinds thine eyes?
Why seek ye still for life's imperfect prize,
Or turn thy weary sail from shore to shore,
When here thou layest aside the ills of yore
To calm thy soul with dreams? Let it suffice--
This heart-sick burden of the worldly-wise--
That ye have borne it and the task is o'er,
Here see the world fade like a spark of fire,
While all thy restless ways grow full of peace,
And wear the fittest crown for them that tire
Their souls with life's unraveled mysteries,--
Above the old red roses of desire
The languid lotus of desire's surcease!