My soul at times, outworn by length of woe,
A strange appeasement seeks in doubting thee,
And cries: My sacred mount's a thing as low
As any hillock; shallow rolls the sea
That should have quenched my deep unbounded thirst;
My star's a lamp that flickers earthly light;
Mere surf-worn glass my emerald; why burst,
O heart! for love of these?— Then, fullest night
Environs me, thou banished; stretching wide
My arms, I grope for refuge; all my pain
Cries babe-like for a breast whereon to hide,
And on to thine I fling myself again....
Thus fools, impatient of God's silence, cry:
There is no God!— and seek what they deny.