To me you seem as one that has in thought A hidden sin, and seeks an easy priest Who shall with smooth and flowing words of grace Persuade it from the heart.
You are still young to be thus weary of life.
There comes to every man a sudden time When he undoes the bolts that bar his heart Displaying hidden shame and scars concealed. Such season is the present. Hear me now; For I am sick and pale with lingering Over a mystery that has no clue Created idly by an idle brain. Astrologers, thrice mighty in yourselves, Say whence crept into me this discontent, This fretfulness of mine. Say whence arose My malady, so cunning in its ways, That I tormented have no skill to guide My doctors to the secret. Day by day I feel the heavy burden of the flesh Grow heavier. Your words rang true indeed. Though I am young, I am grown weary of life. The tedious cycle of each passing day Like streams of dripping tears from blinded eyes Falls in the cup of my calamity; While thoughts, such as you guess, are often here, Bringing a sweet temptation. I have tried All means of remedy. This perfumed air, This gold and ivory, these purple robes Have caused no change. The mute insistent hours Wait for me still, interminably slow. And, as in mental pain a man will crave For any fierce sensation of the flesh To rid his agony, so I have craved The frenzied lashing of tempestuous rain, The heat of flame, the sharpened fang of frost. I have gone forth at midnight with no robe, And walked bare-footed over stony ground While wind and rain have done their worst on me.
I have kissed flame and held these hands in fire; These hands have taken the scourge, that is for slaves, To beat my body. Hear then all my curse. Neither the blade of sharp-projecting flint Nor wind nor rain nor burning tongue of flame Nor knotted scourge can leave a mark on me. These lips are no less red since they were kissed By glowing coal; these hands are yet untorn. Such is my fate, with flesh insensible To suffer from a mind which has no love And no distraction. Have it as you will, I am a shipwreck far on lonely seas With neither oars aboard, nor land in sight, Nor mast, nor mast for fluttering rags of sail.
When you have seen the solemn moon in tears With long green tresses dipped in a purple sea, And noted in each tear a breaking heart, A lump of salty crystal, then your dreams Will give you counsel which we cannot give.