My heart is empty. All the fountains that should run With longing, are in me Dried up. In all my 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 that 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 heaven remembering throws Sweet influence still on earth, -- Because the heaven, moved moth-like by thy beauty, goes Still turning round the earth. C. S. Lewis, The Pilgrim's Regress...
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