I. <br /> <br />I see thy house, but I am blown about, <br />A wind-mocked kite, between the earth and sky, <br />All out of doors-alas! of thy doors out, <br />And drenched in dews no summer suns can dry. <br /> <br />For every blast is passion of my own; <br />The dews cold sweats of selfish agony; <br />Dank vapour steams from memories lying prone; <br />And all my soul is but a stifled cry. <br /> <br />II. <br /> <br />Lord, thou dost hold my string, else were I driven <br />Down to some gulf where I were tossed no more, <br />No turmoil telling I was not in heaven, <br />No billows raving on a blessed shore. <br /> <br />Thou standest on thy door-sill, calm as day, <br />And all my throbs and pangs are pulls from thee; <br />Hold fast the string, lest I should break away <br />And outer dark and silence swallow me. <br /> <br />III. <br /> <br />No longer fly thy kite, Lord; draw me home. <br />Thou pull'st the string through all the distance bleak; <br />Lord, I am nearing thee; O Lord, I come; <br />Thy pulls grow stronger and the wind grows weak. <br /> <br />In thy remodelling hands thou tak'st thy kite; <br />A moment to thy bosom hold'st me fast. <br />Thou flingest me abroad:-lo, in thy might <br />A strong-winged bird I soar on every blast!<br /><br />George MacDonald<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-vision-of-st-eligius/
