To God |
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I am dying, and my work is all before me; As a pencil that doth break beneath the knife So have I brake before the bitter sharping Of the grim blades of thought that shaped my life, And made me fit and keen to speak before Thee, And now I die, just trained enough to sing. |
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Why must I die when I was fit to speak? And why the bitter training of these years - That bred expression's need, and the live promise That I should sing my song? And now, too weak, I see my glories through a mist of fears, As a dumb seer that dies beneath death's kiss, Seeing great visions from a cask of iron. |
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O Thou Who Art; but not by man described - A Force all hidden from the eyes of Proof, Believed in dumbly, or with foolish word, By man whose thoughts are by emotions bribed, |
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If Thou art there, so utter and aloof, Answer my heart that flutters, here, absurd, Asking unguided questions of the Dark - Hope asking - Hope that can but Hark. |
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