Classic Poem

God has not yet His rest in my heart, as a wanderer He comes to me. My prayer does not cling to Him — very often He omits my door .
Therefore I am so much afraid of loneliness, afraid to be unclean like a murderer's heart; my hair — in fear of early greying — fade, like grass caught by the frost .
I envy the cattle in the field and the shepherd who guards them: Often lightning has enlightened them and hail has fallen upon their head .