Unsatisfied, and left quite pale--
Hollow as the sound of highways
Sleep encroaches on the mind
And night outlasts my weary days.
Marching on in outward peace
The wearied soul is discontent
And suffering beneath the blows
Of less and less his first intent.
Fury lasts in patient shapes;
Is meted out to fighting hearts.
It beat you first, and turned on me
And taught me well my nuanced part.
When did it become my pleasure--
This rage which spurs the hero on?
It left a pit where I held out
And found my ordered boundaries gone.
You took it on yourself so soon
I hardly knew what took my breath.
Release let fall my aching bones;
You bore the rage to sudden death.
postscript
Heaviness of heart, caused by fear and perhaps influenced by our daily circumstances, need not remain when it can be surrendered to one who will carry it far away from us.