'Tis something thus to think, and half to trust-- But, ah! my very heart, God-born, should lie Spread to the light, clean, clear of mire and rust, And like a sponge drink the divine sunbeams. What resolution then, strong, swift, and high! What pure devotion, or to live or die! And in my sleep, what true, what perfect dreams! 25. There is a misty twilight of the soul, A sickly eclipse, low brooding o'er a man, When the poor brain is as an empty bowl, And the thought-spirit, weariful and wan, Turning from that which yet it loves the best, Sinks moveless, with life-poverty opprest:-- Watch then, O Lord, thy feebly glimmering coal. 26. I cannot think; in me is but a void; I have felt much, and want to feel no more; My soul is hungry for some poorer fare-- Some earthly nectar, gold not unalloyed:-- The little child that's happy to the core, Will leave his mother's lap, run down the stair, Play with the servants--is his mother annoyed? 27. I would not have it so. Weary and worn, Why not to thee run straight, and be at rest? Motherward, with toy new, or garment torn, The child that late forsook her changeless breast, Runs to home's heart, the heaven that's heavenliest: In joy or sorrow, feebleness or might, Peace or commotion, be thou, Father, my delight. 28. The thing I would say, still comes forth with doubt And difference:--is it that thou shap'st my ends? Or is it only the necessity Of stubborn words, that shift sluggish about, Warping my thought as it the sentence bends?-- Have thou a part in it, O Lord, and I Shall say a truth, if not the thing I try. 29. Gather my broken fragments to a whole, As these four quarters make a shining day. Into thy basket, for my golden bowl, Take up the things that I have cast away In vice or indolence or unwise play. Let mine be a merry, all-receiving heart, But make it a whole, with light in every part. MARCH. 1. THE song birds that come to me night and morn, Fly oft away and vanish if I sleep, Nor to my fowling-net will one return: Is the thing ever ours we cannot keep?-- But their souls go not out into the deep. What matter if with changed song they come back? Old strength nor yet fresh beauty shall they lack. 2. Gloriously wasteful, O my Lord, art thou! Sunset faints after sunset into the night, Splendorously dying from thy window-sill-- For ever. Sad our poverty doth bow Before the riches of thy making might: Sweep from thy space thy systems at thy will-- In thee the sun sets every sunset still. 3.