  I have grown weary of voices, And I long for silence and rest, And the peacefulness of night-time, When no care doth my soul infest. And I’ve grown weary of faces That have never a thought for me; Of eyes all cold and repellent I would be forever made free. And I’ve grown weary of thinking The thoughts that my being possess; The finite and the infinite Forever my bosom oppress. I’m very weary of hoping, And e’er waiting from day to day A happy and bright consummation, An illusion still far away. I’m weary of vacant places: The dear hands that clasp mine no more Have drifted o’er the dark river, And gained the eternal shore. Ah! how I miss the dear faces Of old friends long years since made free; But only their vacant places Forever are calling to me. And so I’m saddened and lonely, And trying to trust and to wait, Dreaming and longing for rest time— ’Tis the passion and burden of fate. |
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