Mine eyes have snared my soul. But O,
Grant me, O Lord, my one desire:
Let fall Thy leaves upon the snow,
Let fall Thy rain upon the fire.

The sun upon my pillow plays,
The self-same hours they sound again,
And always falls my questing gaze
On dying men that harvest grain.

My hands they pluck the withered grass,
Mine eyes with sleep are all undone,
Are sick folk in a springless pass,
Or flowers of darkness in the sun.

When will my dreams unchanging know
The rain, and when the meadows brown?
Along the far horizon, lo,
The lambs are herded toward the town.