When will the bell ring,
and end this weariness?
How long have they tugged the leash,
and strained apart
My pack of unruly hounds:
I cannot start
Them again on a quarry of knowledge they hate to hunt, I can haul them and urge them no more.
No more can I endure to bear the brunt
Of the books that lie out on the desks:
a full three score
Of several insults of blotted pages and scrawl
Of slovenly work that they have offered me.
I am sick, and tired more than any thrall
Upon the woodstacks working weariedly.
And shall I take
The last dear fuel and heap it on my soul
Till I rouse my will like a fire to consume
Their dross of indifference, and burn the scroll
Of their insults in punishment? -
I will not!
I will not waste myself to embers for them,
Not all for them shall the fires of my life be hot,
For myself a heap of ashes of weariness, till sleep
Shall have raked the embers clear:
I will keep
Some of my strength for myself,
for if I should sell
It all for them, I should hate them -