Sometimes I wake, and, lo, I have forgot,
And drifted out upon an ebbing sea!
My soul that was at rest now resteth not,
For I am with myself and not with Thee;
Truth seems a blind moon in a glaring morn,
Where nothing is but sick-heart vanity:
Oh, Thou who knowest, save Thy child forlorn.
Diary of an Old Soul, January 3rd
by George MacDonald
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