O Pity me that wander hence
To haunt the threshold of intent
My soul is pale with impotence,
Colourless and indolent.
A soul for action all too weak,
Pallid with tears, it vainly heeds
The weary hands that idly seek
To grapple with abortive deeds.
Forth from my slumbering heart exhale
The purple bubbles of its dream;
My soul, with waxen hands and frail,
Pours forth a drowsy lunar gleam,
A listless light that dimly shows
The faded lilies of days unborn;
A languid light that only throws
The shadows of those hands forlorn.