Depression

I sat beneath the noontide sun
And as I slumbered on and on
A visitor came wandering
Who trespass-trod the path along
And as he trod he bade me, 'Come!'
But I preferred to sit alone.
Still, he came and sat beside
And there he claimed to know me well
While a stump of wood upturned
He fashioned him a hollow drum
And then monotonous began
To beat upon that endless drum.
And as I lay beneath the moon
Reflecting in her mirror-pool
I felt his fingers and his thumb
Depress and dent my heart again
Until the mourning morning sun
Rose out the dismal lake.
I pondered there, inclined to run
But fixed I was and burned
In the sorrow of the noontide sun
Without a hat or shade upon
My paleness and translucency
And where I went, he followed on.
So I cried and tore myself apart:
'Shall I tell you all about my heart?
Shall I sing you one good song
Or drown you in a riot of fun
Or numb you down with opium?
Or mix for you a potion
Too good for you to bear
Which ought to you be poison?'
But I no pity nor no favour won
From this strange unfeeling one.
So I sat beneath the noontide sun
And as I slumbered on and on
The visitor went wandering
Who'd trespass-trod the path along
And as he trod he bade me, 'Come!'
But I preferred to sit alone.