To Himself

Now shalt thou rest for aye,
My weary heart. The final error dies
Wherewith I nourished my divinest dreams.
'Tis gone. I feel in me for sweet delusions
Not merely hope, but even desire, is dead.
Rest for all time. Enough
Hath been thine agitation. There is nought
So precious, thou shouldst seek it; and the earth
Deserveth not a sigh. But weary bitterness
Is life, nought else, and ashes is the world.
Be now at peace. Despair
For the last time. Unto our race did Fate
Give nought, save death. Now hold in scorn and hate
Thyself and Nature and the power unknown,
That reigns supreme unto the grief of all,
And the vast vanity of this terrestrial ball.