Lord, hear my discontent: all blank I stand, <br />A mirror polished by thy hand; <br />Thy sun's beams flash and flame from me- <br />I cannot help it: here I stand, there he! <br />To one of them I cannot say, <br />Go, and on yonder water play; <br />Nor one poor ragged daisy can I fashion- <br />I do not make the words of this my limping passion! <br />If I should say, Now I will think a thought, <br />Lo, I must wait, unknowing <br />What thought in me is growing, <br />Until the thing to birth be brought! <br />Nor know I then what next will come <br />From out the gulf of silence dumb: <br />I am the door the thing will find <br />To pass into the general mind! <br />I cannot say <br />I think <br />- <br />I only stand upon the thought-well's brink: <br />From darkness to the sun the water bubbles up- <br />lift it in my cup. <br />Thou only thinkest-I am thought; <br />Me and my thought thou thinkest. Nought <br />Am I but as a fountain spout <br />From which thy water welleth out. <br />Thou art the only one, the all in all.- <br />Yet when my soul on thee doth call <br />And thou dost answer out of everywhere, <br />I in thy allness have my perfect share.<br /><br />George MacDonald<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-cry-3/
