The Disciple: XXII

Oh, then, my Father, hast thou not
A blessing just for me?
Shall I be, barely, not forgot?--
Never come home to thee?

Hast thou no care for this one child,
This thinking, living need?
Or is thy countenance only mild,
Thy heart not love indeed?

For some eternal joy I pray,
To make me strong and free;
Yea, such a friend I need alway
As thou alone canst be.

Is not creative infinitude
Able, in every man,
To turn itself to every mood
Since God man's life began?

Art thou not each man's God--his own,
With secret words between,
As thou and he lived all alone,
Insphered in silence keen?

Ah, God, my heart is not the same
As any heart beside;
My pain is different, and my blame,
My pity and my pride!

My history thou know'st, my thoughts
Different from other men's;
Thou knowest all the sheep and goats
That mingle in my pens.

Thou knowest I a love might bring
By none beside me due;
One praiseful song at least might sing
Which could not but be new.