Originally published in Tinsley's Magazine (Tinsley Brothers) vol.1 #2 (Sep 1867).
Yes, I am tired, dear. I will not try
To stem the ebbing current any more,
Nor vex with fruitless prayers the iron sky,
Nor dew with idle tears the barren shore.
The rippling waves that kissed my happy hand,
The waves with laughing music in their flow,
Sadly I watch them o'er the broadening sand;
But I am very tired—let them go.
Too long my chafing pride has stooped to strive
To fan the embers into life again;
No faith can keep the flickering flame alive,
The lingering vigil is but lingering pain.
Too late the voice assumes a tender tone;
Too late the lip in loving smiles is drest:
The tide is out; the last faint spark is gone,
And I am very tired—let me rest.
Just tired—neither angry nor ashamed;
Each wretched mood has fret its feverish hour;
Let the pale bud lie withered and unclaimed—
Dead, or to gracious sun or pitying shower.
Perchance some little life may linger yet
In the crushed stem and withered leaves we see;
But what avails repentance or regret?
I am so tired—tired let it be.
I did so much; I am all worn and cold;
I strive no longer; let what must be, must:
I could not give your hand the strength to hold,
I could not give your heart the depth to trust.
How you will miss me! I could weep your want
Of the close silent love that fenced you so;
The cup I filled was neither weak nor scant,
But I am very tired—let it go.