II. Mastery

I would not have a god come in

To shield me suddenly from sin,

And set my house of life to rights;

Nor angels with bright burning wings

Ordering my earthly thoughts and things;

Rather my own frail guttering lights

Wind blown and nearly beaten out;

Rather the terror of the nights

And long, sick groping after doubt;

Rather be lost than let my soul

Slip vaguely from my own control —

Of my own spirit let me be

In sole though feeble mastery.