Sonnet 11

3/7/11

The lethargy that lulls me, in and out

Of days of half awakened sleep; which slumps

And frowns about in tiredness, in doubt

Of purpose, need, direction, till I crump-

Le on the couch in such a mass, content

In discontentment, restless rest, and waits

For heavy, sluggish nature to repent,

Unable to procure or to create

A mood worth getting up for. What a waste

Of will and wit it is, to sit so Mel-

Ancholy, so very bored. But even tastes

Which once were sweet are dull even to smell.

And what’s the reason for this loss of will?

Either it’s love, or else I am quite ill.