From ‘The Soul’s Travelling’

God, God!  
With a child’s voice I cry,  
Weak, sad, confidingly—  
   God, God!  
Thou knowest, eyelids, raised not always up          
Unto Thy love (as none of ours are), droop  
 As ours, o’er many a tear!  
Thou knowest, though Thy universe is broad,  
Two little tears suffice to cover all:  
Thou knowest, Thou, who art so prodigal         
Of beauty, we are oft but stricken deer  
Expiring in the woods—that care for none  
Of those delightsome flowers they die upon.  
 
O blissful Mouth which breathed the mournful breath  
We name our souls, self-spoilt!—by that strong passion         
Which paled Thee once with sighs,—by that strong death  
Which made Thee once unbreathing—from the wrack  
Themselves have called around them, call them back,  
Back to Thee in continuous aspiration!  
 For here, O Lord,         
For here they travel vainly,—vainly pass  
From city-pavement to untrodden sward,  
Where the lark finds her deep nest in the grass  
Cold with the earth’s last dew. Yea, very vain  
The greatest speed of all these souls of men         
Unless they travel upward to the throne  
Where sittest THOU, the satisfying ONE,  
With help for sins and holy perfectings  
For all requirements—while the archangel, raising  
Unto Thy face his full ecstatic gazing,         
Forgets the rush and rapture of his wings.