Ii

I thought that I might rise And, looking to the stars, Lift up my blinded eyes And bless God unawares,

In words whose merit this— Poor buds of blighting air— To know no loveliness But breathe the scent of prayer;

Since Heaven hath decreed Who suffers lives with God, And he who writes indeed Must write in his own blood

I thought, tho’ fetter’d fast, I yet might move my hands To cast or to recast Some labour—sift the sands

For knowledge—search the vast Some hidden hope to find— Perhaps to help at last The cause of humankind.

O hope abandon’d! Not In me the worth or wit. God gave this lowly lot Because I merit it.

In humble ways I move Myself to little things; The heated hands I prove, I watch the light that springs

Or fades in fever’d eyes; My only solace here, Not to be rich or wise But to have done with fear.

God sees the silent space Where footstep never trod; And in the lonely place The listener is God.

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