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.

Added: Mar 15 2005 | Viewed: 855 times | Comments (0)

Poet: Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Poem: From ‘The Soul’s Travelling’

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