Ah God! The world hath nought to please;

One loses strength and light and peace

In needful toil of sense and brain:

Would I might here with Thee remain!

I am sated with these things of nought,

Wearied with hearing, sight, and thought;

O Mother-Heart, to Thee I turn,

Comfort Thy child, for Thee I yearn:

Thy love, most gentle-innocent!

Would that each hour might there be spent,

That I absorbed in Thee might live,

And child-like to my Father cleave.

Like a parched field my soul doth lie

Pining beneath a sultry sky;

O Heavenly Dew, O gentle Rain,

Descend and bid it bloom again.