Classic Poem

Draw closer to me, God, than were I one,
With the hedged comfort of a creed about,
With not a shadow's shadow of a doubt
That You are father, and each man a son.
Because I halt means not the will to roam,
But through the stubble a surer track to find:
Confused of foot, the ear, the eye less kind,
One fears to miss the steps which lead to home.
Who gives not to a wayfarer at the end
A roof? To beggar a sustaining cup?
Else waits the crumbling ditch from dew to dew.
Even this to me, if by that way I mend,
By such a bitter hand be lifted up,
To stumble to that lodging which is You.