Poems Don't Have to Rhyme

O, Weariness!

I tire of the world and its vices,

As the rose withers,

And I am left to my own devices,

As a newborn bird with eiderdown feathers.

I only wish to pass my days

in the peace my God allows,

And yet the cold world stays

And He bids me come where none may follow.

My heart must be weighed upon my leave

By this cruel land's ancient spawn,

And my soul is left half and cleaved

For none may see the summer dawn.