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PRAYER Our lady of Useless Tears, Thine is my heart's best shrine. I am sick with the gorging years, I am drunk with the bitter wine Of having but cares and fears, Of knowing but how to pine. It is useless to pray to thee, But my heart is full of pain. Thy glance would be charity, Even if the look were disdain. Give me that I may be A child like thine again. My sense of me is all tears. I pity my heart too much. O a cradle for my fears And the hem of thy garment to clutch! O wert thou alive and near us, And thy hand a hand that could touch! I do not know how to pray. My heart is a torn pall. See how my hair grows gray. O teach my lips to call On thy name night and day As if that name were all. My fathers' faith doth rise To my lips this sick hour. I pray to thee with mine eyes Rosaries of anguish. O dower My soul with a least sweet lies Of thy suffering son's power! I have forgotten the taste Of faith, and ache for prayer. My heart is a garden laid waste. O thy hand on my hair Like a mother's hand let rest And let me die with it there!
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Fernando Pessoa
1424
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