O Years, O Months, Weeks, Days and Hours

O years, O months, weeks, days and hours,
O intervals of time, O minutes, moments,
That swallow the hurts, whatever sours,
Without our ever knowing where they went,
Do you not feel how this, my sweet torment,
Reduces you in me, dilutes your force?
If then, the heart, of its own course,
Chooses the pleasures of its misery
Be certain Death is sweet, at the source,
That frees the soul from such agony.