Yellow

The frigid rasp of morning's cruelest breath
Grates at my skin and enters deep inside
To slow the red run of Life's vital ichor.
I feel so cold, so stiff and taught! Like one
Whose form is glazed with ever-chillèd ice,
Or carved by bit, from faded thankless marble.
Though held as I am in this sordid way,
And bereft of onlookers whose taunts I fear,
Rest I cannot! The weight of near four-stone
Pulls chain-like down upon my servile back,
And too short have last I laid a-bed,
So stand I must. For approaches now,
If dare I mutter through the seething fog,
Which emanates, unbid, from mine own lips,
That 'round the corner's elbow-bend I hear
The sound, that bellious and groaning growl
For which in total misery I wait?
Yes, I believe it so! Oh, thankful spirits
Whose whimsies now have come at last to rest
Upon my fortune, and for the better.
I see its visage, smooth as oiled snake,
And of the favored tone of Sun above,
(When deign he share his shining face with us,)
That melodious skin of yellow bright.
At last he comes, so now my head can droop:
All need I do is step into that maw,
To loosen sigh, bequeath my heavy burden,
Shutter mine eyes at last, and think no more.