I said to my friend as the day burnt down What will the morning bring to us? He said, Let us search for the sacred crown The gift of God prepared for us." But the crown seems lost to mortal men Who live a life of want each day Repeating old steps again and again Sunday church, a place to pray, Solemn nights where old dreams lay, Waking sleepily in vain Each new morn is filled with pain And all the mind's forgetfulness.
Poems Undated (1727)
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