Mine 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?