A Tired Soul

So weary grows the heart of late,

Amid the storms and winds of Fate

That batter sore the vessel small,

And set up siege ‘gainst spirit’s walls.


What succor can a soul then seek,

When battle leaves it pale and weak,

And yearns it so for water cool,

Refreshing, by a peaceful pool?


Yet fight it must, against the slings

Of Fortune, and whate’er she brings,

And press yet on in battle fierce,

’Til Hope the shroud of darkness pierce.

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