WORSHIP

How poor is all my love, how great thy claim!

How weak the breath, the voice which would reveal

All that thy soul hath taught my soul to feel —

Longings profound,— deep thoughts without a name.

If God's self might be worshipped, without blame,

In His best works, then would I silent kneel

Watching thine eyes,— until my soul should steal

Back, unperceived, to regions whence it came!

If my whole life were but one thought of thee,

That thought the purest worship of my heart

And my soul's yearning blent; if at thy feet

I offered such a life, there still would be

Something to wish for,— something to complete

The measure of my love and thy desert.