CALLED to a way too high for me, I lean <br />Out from my narrow window o'er the street, <br />and know the fields I cannot see are green, <br />And guess the songs I cannot hear are sweet. <br /> <br />Break up the vision round me, Lord, and thrust <br />Me from Thy side, unhoused without the bars, <br />For all my heart is hungry for the dust <br />And all my soul is weary of the stars. <br /> <br />I would seek out a little roof instead, <br />A little lamp to make my darkness brave. <br />'For though she heal a multitude,' Love said, <br />'Herself she cannot save.'<br /><br />Marjorie Lowry Christie Pickthall<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-chosen-5/
