35 Sonnets — Sonnet IX

IX.

Oh to be idle loving idleness!

But I am idle all in hate of me;

Ever in action’s dream, in the false stress Of purposed action never set to be.

Like a fierce beast self-penned in a bait-lair, My will to act binds with excess my action, Not-acting coils the thought with raged despair, And acting rage doth paint despair distraction.

Like someone sinking in a treacherous sand, Each gesture to deliver sinks the more;

The struggle avails not, and to raise no hand, Though but more slowly useless, we’ve no power.

Hence live I the dead life each day doth bring, Repurposed for next day’s repurposing.