my soul is like a desert, sick of light-filled spaces

Oh let me be alone, far from eyes and faces, 

                Let me be alone, a while, even from you; 

My soul is like a desert, sick of light-filled spaces, 

                The urge of useless winds, the sky of pitiless blue; 

Let me be alone, a while, in twilit places, 

Waiting the merciful night, the stately stars and the dew. 

[Sara Teasdale {1884-1933} 'Weariness']