Have mercy, soul—answer my question now;I am exhausted by my burdens' plough.
I am exhausted by what I endure;Good's lamp went out—my spirit less than pure.
Who am I? What my station? What my aim?Why came I to this withered, ageing frame?
Why was I made for this universe? Alas!Why was I born? Why did fate come to pass?
If time has bent my arrow, fought with me,I care not—hope alone my heart shall see.
I am proud-spirited—I seek no truce;Frankness is all my speech and action's use.
The finest word is that most truly said,Nor meant to alter what my deeds have led.
O Lord, who glories in Thy grace and might,Fears not reproach from what men say or write.
My soul whispered, reproaching as I stood:Is not thy noble memory enough of good?
Enough reproach—be satisfied insteadWith love-nights lit by radiance thou hast led.