101. From ‘Pauline’

O GOD, where does this tend—these struggling aims?

What would I have? What is this ‘sleep’, which seems

To bound all? can there be a ‘waking’ point

Of crowning life? The soul would never rule—

It would be first in all things—it would have

Its utmost pleasure filled,—but that complete

Commanding for commanding sickens it.

The last point I can trace is, rest beneath

Some better essence than itself—in weakness;

This is ‘myself’—not what I think should be

And what is that I hunger for but God?

My God, my God! let me for once look on thee

As tho’ nought else existed: we alone.

And as creation crumbles, my soul’s spark

Expands till I can say, ‘Even from myself

I need thee, and I feel thee, and I love thee;

I do not plead my rapture in thy works

For love of thee—or that I feel as one

Who cannot die—but there is that in me

Which turns to thee, which loves, or which should love.’

Why have I girt myself with this hell-dress?

Why have I laboured to put out my life?

Is it not in my nature to adore,

And e’en for all my reason do I not

Feel him, and thank him, and pray to him—now?

Can I forgo the trust that he loves me?

Do I not feel a love which only ONE…

O thou pale form, so dimly seen, deep-eyed,

I have denied thee calmly—do I not

Pant when I read of thy consummate deeds,

And burn to see thy calm pure truths out-flash

The brightest gleams of earth’s philosophy?

Do I not shake to hear aught question thee?

If I am erring save me, madden me,

Take from me powers and pleasures—let me die.

Ages, so I see thee: I am knit round

As with a charm, by sin and lust and pride,

Yet tho’ my wandering dreams have seen all shapes

Of strange delight, oft have I stood by thee—

Have I been keeping lonely watch with thee

In the damp night by weeping Olivet,

Or leaning on thy bosom, proudly less—

Or dying with thee on the lonely cross—

Or witnessing thy bursting from the tomb!