into the nothingness of scorn and noise,
into the living sea of waking dreams,
where there is neither sense of life nor joys,
but the vast shipwreck of my life's esteems;
even the dearest, that i love the best,
are strange--nay, rather stranger than the rest.

i long for scenes, where the man hath never trod,
a place where oman never smiled or wept--
there to abise with my creator, god,
and sleep as i in childhood sweetly slept,
untroubled where i lie,
the grass below--above the vaulted sky.