O Power to whom this earthly clime Is but an atom in the whole, O Poet-heart of Space and Time, O Maker and Immortal Soul,
Within whose glowing rings are bound, Out of whose sleepless heart had birth The cloudy blue, the starry round, And this small miracle of earth:
Who liv'st in every living thing, And all things are thy script and chart, Who rid'st upon the eagle's wing, And yearnest in the human heart;
O Riddle with a single clue, Love, deathless, protean, secure, The ever old, the ever new, O Energy, serene and pure.
Thou, who art also part of me, Whose glory I have sometime seen, O Vision of the Ought-to-be, O Memory of the Might-have-been,
I have had glimpses of thy way, And moved with winds and walked with stars, But, weary, I have fallen astray, And, wounded, who shall count my scars?
O Master, all my strength is gone; Unto the very earth I bow; I have no light to lead me on; With aching heart and burning brow,
I lie as one that travaileth In sorrow more than he can bear; I sit in darkness as of death, And scatter dust upon my hair.
The God within my soul hath slept, And I have shamed the nobler rule; O Master, I have whined and crept; O Spirit, I have played the fool.
Like him of old upon whose head His follies hung in dark arrears, I groan and travail in my bed, And water it with bitter tears.
I stand upon thy mountain-heads, And gaze until mine eyes are dim; The golden morning glows and spreads; The hoary vapours break and swim.
I see thy blossoming fields, divine, Thy shining clouds, thy blessed trees — And then that broken soul of mine — How much less beautiful than these!
O Spirit, passionless, but kind, Is there in all the world, I cry, Another one so base and blind, Another one so weak as I?
O Power, unchangeable, but just, Impute this one good thing to me, I sink my spirit to the dust In utter dumb humility.
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