Only, my God, see thou that I content thee-- Oh, take thy own content upon me, God! Ah, never, never, sure, wilt thou repent thee, That thou hast called thy Adam from the clod! Yet must I mourn that thou shouldst ever find me One moment sluggish, needing more of the rod Than thou didst think when thy desire designed me. 14. My God, it troubles me I am not better. More help, I pray, still more. Thy perfect debtor I shall be when thy perfect child I am grown. My Father, help me--am I not thine own? Lo, other lords have had dominion o'er me, But now thy will alone I set before me: Thy own heart's life--Lord, thou wilt not abhor me! 15. In youth, when once again I had set out To find thee, Lord, my life, my liberty, A window now and then, clouds all about, Would open into heaven: my heart forlorn First all would tremble with a solemn glee, Then, whelmed in peace, rest like a man outworn, That sees the dawn slow part the closed lids of the morn. 16. Now I grow old, and the soft-gathered years Have calmed, yea dulled the heart's swift fluttering beat; But a quiet hope that keeps its household seat Is better than recurrent glories fleet. To know thee, Lord, is worth a many tears; And when this mildew, age, has dried away, My heart will beat again as young and strong and gay. 17. Stronger and gayer tenfold!--but, O friends, Not for itself, nor any hoarded bliss. I see but vaguely whither my being tends, All vaguely spy a glory shadow-blent, Vaguely desire the "individual kiss;" But when I think of God, a large content Fills the dull air of my gray cloudy tent. 18. Father of me, thou art my bliss secure. Make of me, maker, whatsoe'er thou wilt. Let fancy's wings hang moulting, hope grow poor, And doubt steam up from where a joy was spilt-- I lose no time to reason it plain and clear, But fly to thee, my life's perfection dear:-- Not what I think, but what thou art, makes sure. 19. This utterance of spirit through still thought, This forming of heart-stuff in moulds of brain, Is helpful to the soul by which 'tis wrought, The shape reacting on the heart again; But when I am quite old, and words are slow, Like dying things that keep their holes for woe, And memory's withering tendrils clasp with effort vain? 20. Thou, then as now, no less wilt be my life, And I shall know it better than before, Praying and trusting, hoping, claiming more. From effort vain, sick foil, and bootless strife, I shall, with childness fresh, look up to thee; Thou, seeing thy child with age encumbered sore, Wilt round him bend thine arm more carefully. 21.