I AM WEARY.
I am weary, O my brothers, of the long march down the night;
I am weary though the goal for which we battled is in sight;
I am weary, O my brothers, and I long to turn aside
To rest me in the gardens where the olden dreams abide.
I am weary, O my brothers, of the hard and glaring street,
Where the promise of the spirit is forever incomplete;
I am weary, I am yearning for the innocence that died
When the wings of faith were bartered for the broken cruth of pride.
I am weary, O my brothers, I am sorrowing to death
For the fragrance of the clover and the honeysuckle's breath;
I am fainting for the lost-lands where the cool, sweet bayous flow,
Where the lotus blooms forever and the water lilies grow.
I am weary, O my brothers, I am grieving for the word,
For the high and mystic language that my soul at twilight heard;
I am grieving, I am grieving for the nest-notes of the dove,
For the melody and music of a world aglow with love.
I am weary, O my brothers, of the treason and the strife,
Of this flowerless Sahara with its mirages of life;
I am weary, O my brothers, of the long march up the night,
I am weary though the goal for which we battled is in sight.