I thought I might a singer be And voice my heart's felicity But an unknown divinity Caught my song in a golden jar And held it close while I grew far When bright horizons called to me.
Perhaps I would a writer be, Explore the ultimate mystery In words through which the mind might see What thought unable to perceive Or from imagination weave, The drama of eternity.
Now I have found the inner sun And all my life is new-begun In presence of the silent one Who sings of the infinity Of love surrendered unto Thee When the work for which we came is done.
Poems Undated (1727)
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