Outside the wind claws at my window pane,
And on the roof, in fitful gusts, the rain
Comes like shaken drops from some beast's mane,
But I am sick
And tired of an old longing.
I am of use to no one; all the fire
That burned so briskly here, is out; desire
To win or lose is gone; I too soon tire,
For I am spent
And sick of a vain longing.
Naught interests me; I am resigned to Fate
If such there be; Too worn and spent to hate,
What use is it to me? It is too late,
For I am faint,
And sick of an old longing.