Sometimes I wake, and, lo! I have forgot,
And drifted out upon an ebbing sea!
My soul that was at rest now resteth not,
For I am with myself and not with thee;
Truth seems a blind moon in a glaring morn,
Where nothing is but sick-heart vanity;
Oh, thou who knowest! save thy child forlorn.
George MacDonald, A Book of Strife in the Form of The Diary of An Old Soul, p. 6
Published in 1880.