A RONDEL. 
 
REST, like a star at sea 
Thrice loved, thrice blest, 
Burns.  Will there come to me 
Rest ? 
 
By these suppressed 
Desires my soul must flee, 
By heaven’s crest, 
 
I pray that secretly 
Toward God’s breast 
I draw, to find, maybe, 
Rest ! 
 
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