Sometimes, O Lord, thou lightest in my head
A lamp that well might Pharos all the lands;
Anon the light will neither burn nor spread
Shrouded in danger gray the beacon stands.
- A
- Pharos? Oh, dull brain! Oh, poor quenched lamp,
Under a bushel, with an earthy smell!
Moldering it lies, in rust and eating damp,
While the slow oil keeps oozing from its cell!
For me it were enough to be a flower
Knowing its root in thee was somewhere hid--
To blossom at the far appointed hour,
And fold in sleep when thou, my Nature, bid.
But hear my brethren crying in the dark!
Light up my lamp that it may shine abroad.
Fain would I cry--See, brothers! sisters, mark!
This is the shining of light's father, God.