At last, at last, with so much time spent dying,
and with so many turns of life and fate,
so many times to every folly flying
with hopes to grasp it all, always too late,

with so much here and there, coming and going
much like a useless pilgrim, worn and spent,
oh God!, so often the right path foregoing,
to serve my meanness my whole life content,

I find, at last, that to be dead and gone
to this world is the best that can transpire,
for oblivion and death it will accord,

and living in a corner having won
oneself, fixing in just that place desire
where God himself thus served is the reward.