Ach, Gott, es taugt doch draussen nicht
Ah God! The world hath nought to please;
One loses strength and light and peace
In needful toil of sense and brain:
Would I might here with Thee remain!
I am sated with these things of nought,
Wearied with hearing, sight, and thought;
O Mother-Heart, to Thee I turn,
Comfort Thy child, for Thee I yearn:
Thy love, most gentle-innocent!
Would that each hour might there be spent,
That I absorbed in Thee might live,
And child-like to my Father cleave.
Like a parched field my soul doth lie
Pining beneath a sultry sky;
O Heavenly Dew, O gentle Rain,
Descend and bid it bloom again.
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