The Hermit’s Song

My heart is empty. All the fountains that should run

    With longing are in me

Dried up. In all the countryside there is not one

    That drips to find the sea.

I have no care for anything thy love can grant

    Except the moment’s vain

And hardly noticed filling of the moment’s want

   And to be free from pain.

Oh, thou that art unwearying, that dost neither sleep

   Nor slumber, who didst take

All care for Lazarus in the careless tomb, oh keep

   Watch for me till I wake.

If thou think for me what I cannot think, if thou

    Desire for me what I

Cannot desire, my soul’s interior Form, though now

    Deep-buried, will not die

No more than the insensible dropp’d seed which grows

    Through winter ripe for birth

Because, while it forgets, the heavens remembering throws

    Sweet influence still on earth,

Because the heaven, moved moth-like by thy beauty, goes

    Still turning around the earth.

– from C.S. Lewis’s The Pilgrim’s Regress