The Infidel

My soul at times, outworn by length of woe,

A strange appeasement seeks in doubting thee,

And cries: My sacred mount's a thing as low

As any hillock; shallow rolls the sea

That should have quenched my deep unbounded thirst;

My star's a lamp that flickers earthly light;

Mere surf-worn glass my emerald; why burst,

O heart! for love of these?— Then, fullest night

Environs me, thou banished; stretching wide

My arms, I grope for refuge; all my pain

Cries babe-like for a breast whereon to hide,

And on to thine I fling myself again....

Thus fools, impatient of God's silence, cry:

There is no God!— and seek what they deny.