sigh

Rest or unrest, whether 'tis greater flame of the mouth to utter less incoherence, or the foul odour of the mouth to voice confounding coherence?

If one shall on moutain's heights climb the mists, what beneath awaits your firmament's harsh descent be?

You, less truly relieve my soul.

My heart does in longing numbers call heaven's judge, speak "no more, no more, no more".

Yet, my sleepless soul, whimpered.

'Tis true, 'tis true, 'tis true,
My love, I do,
In heart, in soul, in mind, love you.

O' dear God,
Give us your might,
That in pain helps us fight,
And your wisdom to set it right.

O' in heaven's great seat's eye,
In what compare do with you justify?
O' what seams on paper had they part,
'Tis compassion loyal not, from this heart,
What end keep you from me,
Which herein tents, in your a bosom's mystery?

'Tis much the length in longing time meet,
O' much in sorrow does my heart beat,
I have for her weep,
And her image in mine mind keep.

O' rest little foul of the mouth,
You exhale a fool's words.

Do with humility not yourself extol,
For inasmuch not the world is your control.