Though dust, and dark as dust, am I,
I have a little heart, whereby
With vision open as a star
I gaze on beauty from afar.
Praying thy fingers may caress,
Unuttered is my hearts distress;
And thou supposest that maybe
My lyre has lost its minstrelsy.
Do thou so quicken my desire
That, with a melody of fire,
I may the earthy heart make bright,
And wholly melt the heart of light.
The burning fever of my breed
Is symptom of my so great need;
Thou, who art God, and lackest naught,
Knowst not the anguish in me wrought,
I never sought to make this plain
Or keep it hid from any man;
My secret has itself displayed,
And so my melody was made.