I see thy house, but I am blown about,
A wind-mocked kite, between the earth and sky,
All out of doors–alas! of thy doors out,
And drenched in dews no summer suns can dry.
For every blast is passion of my own;
The dews cold sweats of selfish agony;
Dank vapour steams from memories lying prone;
And all my soul is but a stifled cry.
Lord, thou dost hold my string, else were I driven
Down to some gulf where I were tossed no more,
No turmoil telling I was not in heaven,
No billows raving on a blessed shore.
Thou standest on thy door-sill, calm as day,
And all my throbs and pangs are pulls from thee;
Hold fast the string, lest I should break away
And outer dark and silence swallow me.
No longer fly thy kite, Lord; draw me home.
Thou pull’st the string through all the distance bleak;
Lord, I am nearing thee; O Lord, I come;
Thy pulls grow stronger and the wind grows weak.
In thy remodelling hands thou tak’st thy kite;
A moment to thy bosom hold’st me fast.
Thou flingest me abroad:–lo, in thy might
A strong-winged bird I soar on every blast!