OH! foolish troubled heart, That wilt not be at rest, But sorrowful thou knowest not why Throbbest within my breast, Murmuring at thy lot, Hoping what thou knowest not, What aileth thee? Longing so wearily, What aileth thee? Not grief thy foe can be, Life works thee no such ill, It is not love that wakens thee, Why art not sleeping still? By strange feelings stirred, Pining like a prisoned bird, What aileth thee? Longing so drearily, What aileth thee? Hast thou some weird voice heard, That bade thee rest no more? Oh, prithee slumber once again, Thou wast so still before; Wherefore so troubled art? Rest, rest, oh! foolish heart, What aileth thee? Longing so wearily, What aileth thee? |