II

All I have wished to do, mother, I have not done.

Even what I wish to feel makes mistakes within me.

I grow tired, dimly tired, of the calm and constant sun,

And restless beside the happier restlessness of the sea.

Oh for a boat to believe I might sail in it and go,

Beyond the walls of my sensations' world and become

A floating absence from my worn self, a discarded woe

Trailing behind me likes a ship's trail, shining through

My consciousness of having dropt my life like a lamp in a home.