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NEREIA
TIRED of solemn toil, of restless search
After the truth of things that still seem false:
Tired of all our subtle schemes to catch
The living thought, to rend and ravage it,
Till at its heart of hearts our ruthless thirst
For motives and hid meanings and dark signs
Of something great, profound, and serious
Be glutted: tir’d of these, and tir’d to death
Of mine own feverish mind and seething doubts,
I snatch’d a quiet week by the blue sea,
And set to words a picture of my brain
Mere colour, hoping to find rest thereby.—
Grey glimmering twilight fill’d the dewy air,
Right overhead, the dim mysterious sky
Hung motionless; but, far away, it slid
Smoothly and slow into the tranquil sea,
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