My spirit is too weak--mortality 
Weighs heavily on me like unwilling sleep, 
And each imagin'd pinnacle and steep 
Of godlike hardship, tells me I must die 
Like a sick Eagle looking at the sky. 
Yet 'tis a gentle luxury to weep 
That I have not the cloudy winds to keep, 
Fresh for the opening of the morning's eye. 
Such dim-conceived glories of the brain 
Bring round the heart an undescribable feud; 
So do these wonders a most dizzy pain, 
That mingles Grecian grandeur with the rude 
Wasting of old Time--with a billowy main-- 
A sun--a shadow of a magnitude.