The loneliest man
K. Weigl
Now since the day
Grew weary of the day the streams of all thy longing
To thee fresh solace murmur,
And all the heavens, held secure in golden meshes
To ev'ry tired being say: Rest thee now!
Why dost not rest, thou sombre heart,
What goads thee on to flight till feet are sore,
What dost await?