An unborn faith I will not nurse, Pursue an endless task; Loud out into its universe My soul shall call and ask!
Is there no God--earth, sky, and sea Are but a chaos wild! Is there a God--I know that he Must hear his calling child!
I kneel. But all my soul is dumb With hopeless misery: Is he a friend who will not come, Whose face I must not see?
I do not think of broken laws, Of judge's damning word; My heart is all one ache, because I call and am not heard.
A cry where there is none to hear, Doubles the lonely pain; Returns in silence on the ear, In torture on the brain.
No look of love a smile can bring, No kiss wile back the breath To cold lips: I no answer wring From this great face of death.
Yet sometimes when the agony Dies of its own excess, A dew-like calm descends on me, A shadow of tenderness;
A sense of bounty and of grace, A cool air in my breast, As if my soul were yet a place Where peace might one day rest.
God! God! I say, and cry no more, But rise, and think to stand Unwearied at the closed door Till comes the opening hand.
But is it God?--Once more the fear Of _No God_ loads my breath: Amid a sunless atmosphere I fight again with death.
Such rest may be like that which lulls The man who fainting lies: His bloodless brain his spirit dulls, Draws darkness o'er his eyes.
But even such sleep, my heart responds, May be the ancient rest Rising released from bodily bonds, And flowing unreprest.
The o'ertasked will falls down aghast In individual death; God puts aside the severed past, Breathes-in a primal breath.
For how should torture breed a calm? Can death to life give birth? No labour can create the balm That soothes the sleeping earth!
I yet will hope the very One Whose love is life in me, Did, when my strength was overdone, Inspire serenity.
When the hot sun's too urgent might Hath shrunk the tender leaf, Water comes sliding down the night, And makes its sorrow brief.
When poet's heart is in eclipse, A glance from childhood's eye, A smile from passing maiden's lips, Will clear a glowing sky.
Might not from God such influence come A dying hope to lift? Might he not send to poor heart some Unmediated gift?
My child lies moaning, lost in dreams, Abandoned, sore dismayed; Her fancy's world with horror teems, Her soul is much afraid: