Classic Poem

O, Thou who art driving the silver-swift wheels of the sun,
Rushing on, rushing on, rushing on in the dead of the night,
I have roused me to hear;
I have roused me to hear how thy planets are satinly spun,
How thy forces are sandaled for flight.
And I listen in fright,
Yea, I waken in wonderful fear,
For that which was soundless is clear,
The whisper and whir of thy pulse, it hath come to mine ear.
Hush! ... I hold me so still
To the beat of thy will,
Throbbing on, throbbing on, throbbing on in the infinite dark;
I will stifle my breathing to hark.
I will hollow myself as a flute
That thy spirit may speak,
I will hold myself utterly mute.
O, Thou who, unsleeping,
Art endlessly keeping
The worlds in the universe wound —
Every rod, every disk, every intricate part,
Slipping on, slipping on, slipping on, without error or sound,
To measure the pulse of thy heart;
What care I if Thou hast not form, or a human embrace!
If Thou hast not a throne or a crown or a mansion in space,
Need my being despair?
Thou art larger and freer than air;
Thou art here when I call,
And thy beauty encompasseth all.
I will make myself smoother than glass —
Yea, white as a mirror is white,
To gather thy breath as it pass,
To garner thy light.
Thou art larger and freer than air, and as air Thou art near,
Who hast strangely and terribly opened the path of mine ear,
Who hast lengthened
And strengthened
My hearing to follow the timing,
The delicate chiming,
Of sphere upon sphere ...
Far up where the racing of minutes and pacing of hours is heard,
And a star ticks time, ticks time to the heart of a bird.
I will hold me as hushed as a harp to the sound of thy coming,
As a forest of pines awake to the far winds humming,
I am thine to be shaken,
O, Thou who didst waken.
And call me to hear, in the sweet of the night,
How Thou feedest the fires of thy planets, enamored of flight,
And tendest the furnace here in my breast
That hath never known rest.
I will hold me as slim as a reed
The more finely to heed ...
I will humble myself as a weed.
Yea, God, so the heart of thy secret I find,
I will humble myself as grasses that worship the wind.
What care I if Thou hast not a name,
Who art Power and Presence and Force,
Who art Infinite Source,
Who art wind ... who art flame!
If Thou hast not body, wings, or a lightning face,
Doth it matter to thee?
Thy being with mine casts its pace;
When Thou speakest to Saturn, Thou speakest also to me.
I am thine to be shaken
And lifted and taken;
Thine to be whirled
On, on to the ends of the world,
So the might of thy message I bring!
I will shout, I will sing,
I will cry from the housetops this marvelous thing ...
I will call to the bowed, broken, desolate children of men
The joy of thy coming again.
O, flame in the wind, O, Voice in the flame ...
Forever and ever and ever the same,
In the night, in the dawn,
Throbbing on, throbbing on, throbbing on!