Silence, loneliness, darkness —
These, and of these my fill,
While God in the rush of the Maytide
Without is working His will.
Without are the wind and the wall-flowers,
The leaves and the nests and the rain,
And in all of them God is making
His beautiful purpose plain.
But I wait in a horror of strangeness —
A tool on His workshop floor,
Worn to the butt, and banished
His hand for evermore.