From The Souls Travelling

God, God!     With a childs 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, oer 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 earths 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.