My spirit is too weak -- mortality
   Weighs heavily on me like unwilling sleep,
   And each imagined pinnacle and steep
 Of godlike hardship tells me I must die
 Like a sick eagle looking at the sky.
   Yet 'tis a gentle luxury to weep
   That I have not the cloudy winds to keep
 Fresh for the opening of the morning's eye.
 Such dim-conceived glories of the brain
   Bring round the heart an undescribable feud;
 So do these wonders a most dizzy pain,
   That mingles Grecian grandeur with the rude
 Wasting of old time--with a billowy main --
   A sun--a shadow of a magnitude.