Of what I feel no longer,
Of what I perceive no more,
Some may call me the richer,
I think me rather poor.
My knees no longer tremble,
My heart no more aloft,
And I discern no difference,
Between the hard and soft.
I sense not the mourning,
My heart knows that it should,
Nor can I measure by degrees,
Of equal; bad and good.
And the echo would be hollow,
Were you to beat upon my chest,
All that's found here at this inn,
Is an empty, vacant, rest.
Which cost me not a single thing,
Spare a dream upon my waking,
Meanwhile 'til soul from slumber stirs,
My heart will not be breaking.