Classic Poem

ODE XXIX

1

This Dullnes is improper to the Day,
And I am Sad; not in a common way;
My Fancie, Darke as night,
And fixed; all the Light
Of Reason fled;
And I am dead
Unto my selfe; I seeke
A Thousand waies, to breake
The Cloud which doth involve me; and invade
With a strange mist, the little light I had.

2

I cannot speake, what I would strive to say;
And what I most would doe, I most delay;
I doe not know my Thought;
Or rather I thinke nought
Which can be knowne;
I'me not my owne
Disposer to the poore
Follies of everie howre;
And common Things, I can noe more intend,
Then grave Designes; but from all purpose bend.

3

How am I Stupid? how below my thought?
Am I to Sottishnes, and nothing, brought?
I doe not breath, as once;
But closed in Ignorance
I seeme to dwell,
As in a Shell;
Where my close-breathing tires
My Lungs, in oft respires;
And fainting, all my Spirrits loose their use;
Why am I choack'd? why am I stifled thus?