Outside the wind claws at my window pane, 
And on the roof, in fitful gusts, the rain 
Comes like shaken drops from some beast's mane, 
But I am sick 
And tired of an old longing. 

I am of use to no one; all the fire 
That burned so briskly here, is out; desire 
To win or lose is gone; I too soon tire, 
For I am spent 
And sick of a vain longing. 

Naught interests me; I am resigned to Fate 
If such there be; Too worn and spent to hate, 
What use is it to me? It is too late, 
For I am faint, 
And sick of an old longing. 

         Sandy Doone.