I.

What waste and squandered Life when on these shores

Of premature Regret I lay me down―

Down on tired sands that keep me from the fret

And fever of a world in chains. What Life!

Life that once was, now lost and nothing more

To Lethe tides, and torn as from a book

Like leaves that ever beckon you to look

Inside, to stand before that which you fear.

I cannot look, and neither can I stand,

For here upon the sand, I soon forget

That wasted life, my premature Regret,

Here upon the fading banks of Lethe.