Thou workest perfectly. And if it seem Some things are not so well, 'tis but because They are too loving-deep, too lofty-wise, For me, poor child, to understand their laws: My highest wisdom half is but a dream; My love runs helpless like a falling stream: Thy good embraces ill, and lo! its illness dies! 6. From sleep I wake, and wake to think of thee. But wherefore not with sudden glorious glee? Why burst not gracious on me heaven and earth In all the splendour of a new-day-birth? Why hangs a cloud betwixt my lord and me? The moment that my eyes the morning greet, My soul should panting rush to clasp thy father-feet. 7. Is it because it is not thou I see, But only my poor, blotted fancy of thee? Oh! never till thyself reveal thy face, Shall I be flooded with life's vital grace. Oh make my mirror-heart thy shining-place, And then my soul, awaking with the morn, Shall be a waking joy, eternally new-born. 8. Lord, in my silver is much metal base, Else should my being by this time have shown Thee thy own self therein. Therefore do I Wake in the furnace. I know thou sittest by, Refining--look, keep looking in to try Thy silver; master, look and see thy face, Else here I lie for ever, blank as any stone. 9. But when in the dim silver thou dost look, I do behold thy face, though blurred and faint. Oh joy! no flaw in me thy grace will brook, But still refine: slow shall the silver pass From bright to brighter, till, sans spot or taint, Love, well content, shall see no speck of brass, And I his perfect face shall hold as in a glass. 10. With every morn my life afresh must break The crust of self, gathered about me fresh; That thy wind-spirit may rush in and shake The darkness out of me, and rend the mesh The spider-devils spin out of the flesh-- Eager to net the soul before it wake, That it may slumberous lie, and listen to the snake. 11. 'Tis that I am not good--that is enough; I pry no farther--that is not the way. Here, O my potter, is thy making stuff! Set thy wheel going; let it whir and play. The chips in me, the stones, the straws, the sand, Cast them out with fine separating hand, And make a vessel of thy yielding clay. 12. What if it take a thousand years to make me, So me he leave not, angry, on the floor!-- Nay, thou art never angry!--that would break me! Would I tried never thy dear patience sore, But were as good as thou couldst well expect me, Whilst thou dost make, I mar, and thou correct me! Then were I now content, waiting for something more. 13.