Fresh for the opening of the morning's eye.

My spirit is too weak--mortality

Weighs heavily upon me like unwilling sleep,
And each imagined pinnacle and steep
Of godlike hardship tells me I must die
Like a sick eagle looking at the sky.
Yet 'tis a luxury to weep
That I have not the cloudy winds to keep,
Fresh for the opening of the morning's eye.
Such dim-conceived glories of the brain
Bring 'round the heart an undescribable feud;
So do these wonders a most dizzy pain,
That mingles grecian grandeur with the rude
Wasting of old time--with a billowy main--
A sun--a shadow of a magnitude.

-John Keats
(quoted from memory)

Photo: mine, photoshop art