A SONG IN YOUR PRAISE

 
It's no good talking to One who is the SAYING of the say which one says,
Because he doesn't listen because he knows exactly what he is going to say. —

Tired and tired am I of myself. For the wide expanse of the sky of your bosom I cry.
Awake in my heart that I may love you with service —

Or else be dust before your feet: anything but this not-even nothing,
nor a place in your Everything; something, O my Child and my Father.

The stars weep, and you have compassion on them in their dew to the grass
And the wheatfields; the sun sinks in his shame, and you cover him

With hiding night; but my tears laugh at me
And my shame is naked before me.

The prayers of the ant and the flame-loving moth are you answering,
And the heavy earth-turning are you guiding with infinite care. —

A song in your praise, or a mute adoration,
Is not much of an asking.