Something this foggy day, a something which <br />Is neither of this fog nor of today, <br />Has set me dreaming of the winds that play <br />Past certain cliffs, along one certain beach, <br />And turn the topmost edge of waves to spray: <br />Ah pleasant pebbly strand so far away, <br />So out of reach while quite within my reach, <br />As out of reach as India or Cathay! <br />I am sick of where I am and where I am not, <br />I am sick of foresight and of memory, <br />I am sick of all I have and all I see, <br />I am sick of self, and there is nothing new; <br />Oh weary impatient patience of my lot! <br />Thus with myself: how fares it, Friends, with you?<br /><br />Christina Georgina Rossetti<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/later-life/
