I think my thought, and fancy I think thee.-- Lord, wake me up; rend swift my coffin-planks; I pray thee, let me live--alive and free. My soul will break forth in melodious thanks, Aware at last what thou wouldst have it be, When thy life shall be light in me, and when My life to thine is answer and amen. 23. How oft I say the same things in these lines! Even as a man, buried in during dark, Turns ever where the edge of twilight shines, Prays ever towards the vague eternal mark; Or as the sleeper, having dreamed he drinks, Back straightway into thirstful dreaming sinks, So turns my will to thee, for thee still longs, still pines. 24. The mortal man, all careful, wise, and troubled, The eternal child in the nursery doth keep. To-morrow on to-day the man heaps doubled; The child laughs, hopeful, even in his sleep. The man rebukes the child for foolish trust; The child replies, "Thy care is for poor dust; Be still, and let me wake that thou mayst sleep." 25. Till I am one, with oneness manifold, I must breed contradiction, strife, and doubt; Things tread Thy court--look real--take proving hold-- My Christ is not yet grown to cast them out; Alas! to me, false-judging 'twixt the twain, The Unseen oft fancy seems, while, all about, The Seen doth lord it with a mighty train. 26. But when the Will hath learned obedience royal, He straight will set the child upon the throne; To whom the seen things all, grown instant loyal, Will gather to his feet, in homage prone-- The child their master they have ever known; Then shall the visible fabric plainly lean On a Reality that never can be seen. 27. Thy ways are wonderful, maker of men! Thou gavest me a child, and I have fed And clothed and loved her, many a growing year; Lo! now a friend of months draws gently near, And claims her future--all beyond his ken-- There he hath never loved her nor hath led: She weeps and moans, but turns, and leaves her home so dear. 28. She leaves, but not forsakes. Oft in the night, Oft at mid-day when all is still around, Sudden will rise, in dim pathetic light, Some childish memory of household bliss, Or sorrow by love's service robed and crowned; Rich in his love, she yet will sometimes miss The mother's folding arms, the mother's sealing kiss. 29. Then first, I think, our eldest-born, although Loving, devoted, tender, watchful, dear, The innermost of home-bred love shall know! Yea, when at last the janitor draws near, A still, pale joy will through the darkness go, At thought of lying in those arms again, Which once were heaven enough for any pain. 30.