Heavenly sadness, I am thine;
Thither do all my ways incline,
That long in thine abode to rest--
It is a longing by design.
Hence I would go, and thither—lest
Cares of this world have me oppressed--
And I would gladly travel from
This world of woe to love’s soft breast.
“Pillowed there”—so would blisses come
Softly, but now, my mind grown numb
I seek a dullard’s hebetude
In sleep, the senses stopped and dumb.
Let none my vanity intrude
Though it may be I wail and brood
For nought—futility divine
Is mine, despite some interlude.