T'is travailed my heart,

though my eye's for cause, would not believe.

Even as were cast upon me,
both awake or sleep... I dreamt bountifully...
 thy vision... who touched me not.

T'was thy thought for me, less full...
without want... whilst I wait for thee alone.

I suffer for thee upon my pillow,

but dost though awake and dream for me.

Art thou most shallow of heart, nearest my thought,
and casts my vision from thee.
When thou could'st drink with my wine...
lettest thy lips... seek another's?

Step down with me upon the traveled
lands of my heart...

lay down thy head with mine...
against the adventures I have wrought for thee.

Tell of thy dreams, in the making of thy look to me,
dispelling my fears of sorrow for thee,
and save me...

from God's given death.

Travail - By John Thomas Harkless
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