My life is still to-night, no bitterness,
Nor joy; and but one endless thought creeps out,
As dreaming here I sit and think about
My days that pass without dear love’s caress.
And yet, O God! I cannot, cannot guess
Why lonely I must dwell and ever doubt
The time will come when he, my own, will rout
My fears and all my restless heart’s distress.
Why didst thou plant in me this longing so
That in my wake and sleep forever calls
And yet beyond my pale of fortune falls?
Not always I’ll be young, the bloom will go.
All this, O God! I have not understood.
Am I not worthy–have not I been good?