He was weary of all of his usual joys;
His books and his blocks made him tired,
And so did his games and mechanical toys,
And the songs he had always admired; ...
LADY, in thy proud eyes
There is a weary look,
As if the spirit we know through them
Were daunted with rebuke
To think that the heart of man henceforth
Is read like a read book.
Lady, in thy lifted face
The solitude is sore;
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