Feet, I am weary of your beat;
All day, all year, all life you pass
Below me on the street,
Driven upon my hearing as the grass
Before wild rain and sleet.

You snatch up in your tidal tone
The reaching rhythms of my peace
And substitute your drone,
Until intimidated dreams release
The visions they have known.

Feet, I am weary of your stave —
The little course your sounds pursue —
Weary that I must waive
My reaches in subservience to you,
Who seek only a grave.