Songs of the Spirit

Sufficient to beat back the waves of doubt, To pierce the void, and grasp the glorious, To find out Truth ? Would God it might be so, Since here is nothing for the soul to love Or cling to beyond self. My chamberlain Once showed me a pet slave, dwarf, savage, black, A vile, lewd creature, who would cast a staff Far wheeling through the air, and suddenly Break its swift course, and curving rapidly Come hard upon himself who threw. Even so These vile deformities—our souls—cast forth Missiles of thought, and seek to reach some end With swift imagining—and end in self. What sage called God the image of man’s self He sees cast dimly on a bank of cloud, Thrice his own size ? And I whose life has been [Cry without.] One bitter fight with nature and myself To find Him out, turn, terrible, to-night [Cry without.] To see myself—myself—myself. [Cry without.] Hush ! Hark ! Methought I heard a cry. The seamew wails 14