The Source

I know, whatever God may be,

All Life it was, that lighted me

This little flame, whereby I see.

I know all strength did stirHis hand,

To serve somehow, this poor command

Of what-so-e'er I understand;

I know all strength did stirHis hand.

And from all love, there throbs the stress

Of pity and of wistfulness;

Both to be blesséd and to bless.

There, by the source, that still doth pour,

On star and glowworm, reckoned for,

I will have more and ever more!