I have a sickness of the world
that, through all-encompassing solitude,
doth send me to that bitter introspection
that is the bane of Man's sharp mind.
Reason, like a starvèd beast of Apollo's house
snaps at my heel with unwavering pursuit,
chases me from the lush lands of Ignorance 'til
crawling on bleak earth, I am doomed.

How long the hours I have spent there! Oh,
on the fringes of happiness
with a comprehension ill of darkness,
untouched by the heart, bosom-friend of the brain.
How I have bade myself search
in the twisted crevices of my mind some small light
to secure in my heart a confirmation
of the golden worth of my sacrifice.

When doubt should seek to inflict me and break
into parts the firm conviction of my purpose,
how I shall lament the cursèd discipline of genius!
How I shall rue that loathsome price of knowledge!
Yet that trivial crack, oft in its weakness,
through which the withered bud of emotion grows
would sooner chain me to a deathlier Fate
than fix this sickness of the world.