SINCE Thou dost clothe Thyself to-day in cloud, <br />Lord God in heaven, and no voice low or loud <br />Proclaims Thee,--see, I turn me to the Earth, <br />Its wisdom and its sorrow and its mirth, <br />Thy Earth perchance, but sure my very own, <br />And precious to me grows the clod, the stone, <br />A voiceless moor's brooding monotony, <br />A keen star quivering through the sunset dye, <br />Young wrinkled beech leaves, saturate with light, <br />The arching wave's suspended malachite; <br />I turn to men, Thy sons perchance, but sure <br />My brethren, and no face shall be too poor <br />To yield me some unquestionable gain <br />Of wonder, laughter, loathing, pity, pain, <br />Some dog-like craving caught in human eyes, <br />Some new-wak'd spirit's April ecstasies; <br />These will not fail nor foil me; while I live <br />There will be actual truck in take and give, <br />But Thou hast foil'd me; therefore undistraught, <br />I cease from seeking what will not be sought, <br />Or sought, will not be found through joy or fear; <br />If still Thou claimst me, seek me. I am here.<br /><br />Edward Dowden<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/deus-absconditus/
