So be it then:
Let me demur not
But let there be
A breeze of rapid folly
Stirred in me
To fullest measure
Spirits can mete out;
And discontented,
Cold, surrendered doubt
Holds fast my wrists
And bears them to the sky;
The open palms
Themselves the reason why.
Fields of grass bend, weighted
Supplicants to subtle change
And unjust reasonings that leave
The beauteous Helen hanged.
I'll have it then:
Let me relent not
To waves of salted sea
That batter like the harshness
Of the words once hurled at me
From the shore I bide my time
Know the breeze of folly takes
The strength out of a man
And scorns the path it makes.
Let me go then:
And the crowding woods
That creep upon the field
Are flattened, and the earth expands
And soil gives up its yield.
One word, and rapid folly
Has its hands about my waist.
Coldly it posseses
What my discontent erased.
Let me demur not:
Rightful freedom
Has its roots in tireless chasing
Of the end (whose name escapes me)
That my spirit is embracing.
postscript
The folly brought about by impatience and stress: it's debilitating. To emotion, to beauty, to the Spirit.