AINT and trembling, tired and late, I approach the bolted gate; And with humbleness sincere, Knock, and crave admittance here,— Worn with wanderings long and sore: Open the door!
Asking neither alms nor food, Only rest and quietude; Hear, I pray, my humble plaint,— Never soul so tired and faint Craved compassion here before: Open the door!
O, how soft the couch will be, Folded down so peacefully, Pillows fair and dainty-white, Shaded from the tiresome light, By dim angels hovering o'er: Open the door!
Never on an earthly bed Was so dainty drapery spread, Spangled bright with buds and bees, Broidered with anemones;— Hear me, Angel, I implore: Open the door!
Once I longed for Wealth and Place, Happiness, and Love's sweet grace,— Now there lives within my breast Only this one wish,—for Rest,— Only Rest,—I ask no more: Open the door!
AINT and trembling, tired and late, 
AINT and trembling, tired and late, 