Sonnet IX

Oh to be idle loving idleness!

But I am idle all in hate of me;

Ever in action's dream, in the false

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.