Desolate

When thought of all but thee
Has from me gone,
Still by thy strength upheld
I struggle on.

Come to me, Vitthal, come!

For thee I wait.
O, wherefore hast thou me
Left desolate.

Many oppress me sore
With cruel might;
My very enemies
Are day and night.

Ah come and take thy place
At my heart's core;
Then shall the net of ill
Snare me no more.