A Restful Heart I found that life was a sort of misprision How passively I breathe, Without a thought The battles I fought were a sort of irreverence That I could persuade shadow— Conjoined to myself, that it would be tame Having been a restitute part of my corporal being Folly is so equipped that it would fall Without the lattices of love But love turned foolish Through the eyes of even the hopeful That it would be pity— Not so. Its vice is virtue, Its virtue its madness I cannot correlate these traits To be more than themselves, Thus, I retire my fixation In rest, however furtive, I go In rest, however furtive, I go.

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