MY HEART's so heavy with a hundred things That I feel dead a hundred times a-day; Yet death would be the least of sufferings, For life's all suffering save what's slept away; Though even in sleep there is no dream but brings From dream-land such dull torture as it may. And yet one moment would pluck out these stings, If for one moment she were mine to-day Who gives my heart the anguish that it has. Each thought that seeks my heart for its abode Becomes a wan and sorrow-stricken guest: Sorrow has brought me to so sad a pass That men look sad to meet me on the road; Nor any road is mine that leads to rest. |