Xvi

It happened. My soul minus Thee No longer feels itself as whole; To think myself without Thee once Would be as to have lost my soul.

Yes, Thou art woven in my soul Thou art her pride and her delight-- Thou art my solace, my desire, My happiness--my pain and plight.

From joyless days Thou heaven weav’st As does the bride her wedding dress; In me Thou wak’st, in me Thou dream’st; What I’m, what Thou, is hard to guess.

It matters not what my fate be-- For I know well its weaving hand. And should Thy hand destruction bring, On that, too, heaven might depend.