Whence come those anguished works of art,
Those songs of man’s distress?
You find the secret in our heart,
That entity of restlessness;
The heart that is meant to be on fire
Whose death is just to be cold;
The heart that knows not what to desire
And does not want to be told;
That heart that is not content with gold
Nor filled with earthly truth;
The youthful heart that wants to be old
The old that moans for youth.
Our heart was made for a fiery dart
For a dove, a living nest.
Our heart was made for another Heart
Whose restlessness is rest.
From Divine Alchemy