 | Poems |  |
141
THE LIGHT OF THE WORLD.
‘Behold, I stand at the door and knock.’
143
I
Oh, can it be that still Thou art standing there,Outside mine heart's door, in Thine old sweet guise,
With the old words, `Oh, open, and be wise!'
With patient knock and piteous pleading prayer?
Yet still I hear Thee. But too sad to bear,
My Lord, Thy voice hath grown—Thy yearning cries
Broken with love, whereto no love replies.
Yet hope—hope still. I need not yet despair.
I will hasten and undo the door at last;
I am hastening now for fear Thou else be gone.
Enter, my Christ! or ere the hour be past!
Ah, me! how dusty are the door-posts grown!
Baffled again! Help, help me here alone—
The hinges and the lock are rusted fast.
144
II
And I am dreamy and weak. I cannot tellWhat slothful power hath hold on all my heart.
I would some thunder-bolt of thought would dart
Right in the midst, and burst the drowsy spell,
Sharp with fierce thunder and flame intolerable;
That this blind, cursed film were cloven apart;
That my dull eyes might open with a start,
And sting, brought face to naked face with hell!
Lord, I have no strength left to come to Thee.
Oh would that me, thus weak in drunkard's wise,
Something might rouse, sharp as the chill surprise
Of interlunar fresh night winds, that be
Blown in some reveller's dizzy, aching eyes,
Wild from sea-stars and windy wastes of sea!
An. æt. 19.
| Poems | |