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.
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