No matter what we dream, What we dream is true. No matter what doth seem, God doth it view And therefore it is Real as all this. No matter what we wish, We have it elsewhere Now, e' er now, and rich Are we here of there. Inside our felt I God we self‑descry. Sometimes I think hope May make this come true, But I stop, I grope, And life, fear and woe Is all that remains. Wherefore then these pains, This unrest that thrills With a possible joy All the pain that fills Our hope till it cloy? Wherefore this, wherefore If all is unsure? Oh, give me a breeze On a meadow land, And let that breeze please Nor I understand. For all anguish is A vague wish for bliss.
