Ode XXX

Thee I choose, of all the world, alone;
Wilt thou suffer me to sit in grief?
My heart is as a pen in thy hand,
Thou art the cause if I am glad or melancholy.
Save what thou wiliest, what will have I?
Save what thou showest, what do I see?
Thou mak’st grow out of me now a thorn and now a rose
Now I smell roses and now pull thorns.
If thou keep’st me that, that I am;
If thou would’st have me this, I am this.
In the vessel where thou givest colour to the soul
Who am I, what is my love and hate?
Thou wert first, and last thou shalt be;
Make my last better than my first.
When thou art hidden, I am of the infidels;
When thou art manifest, I am of the faithful.
I have nothing, except thou hast bestowed it;
What dost thou seek from my bosom and sleeve?