It is not thou, my soul, that, sick and pale,
Shrinkest inept from every loud-tongued wrong;
I think of thy sole self thou couldest be strong
If that thy habitation did not quail.
Some flesh is doomed of mere excess to fail,—
Owning too many chords too highly strung,
Too many paths to lose the way among;—
Too perfect service simply to avail.

But howsoe'er my soul is ill at ease
In this her house, and would be free of it;
She cannot work her will if not in peace,
Or live in any place whence love would flit;
So Love, of my sad life obtain release,
Get better terms for me, or leave to quit.