Man Hath His Daily Work Of Body

Now Morn, Her Rosy Steps In Th' Eastern Clime Advancing, Sow'd The Earth With Orient Pearl, When Adam Wak'd, So Custom'd; For His Sleep Was Aery Light, From Pure Digestion Bred.

This Is Servitude, To Serve The Unwise.

But Pain Is Perfect Misery, The Worst Of Evils, And Excessive, Overturns All Patience.

Thus With The Year Seasons Return, But Not To Me Returns Day, Or The Sweet Approach Of Ev'n Or Morn, Or Sight Of Vernal Bloom, Or Summer's Rose, Or Flocks, Or Herds, Or Human Face Divine.

From Restless Thoughts, That, Like A Deadly Swarm Of Hornets Arm'd, No Sooner Found Alone, But Rush Upon Me Thronging.