My cry

Not now, not yet, for me; but I am grown

In lordly pride, I see thee I rejoice.

Thine the loud music! Thine the plenteous voice!

Thine is the seed and sod and seeds re-sown!

Thine the completion! Thine the crown and throne!

Thine all the impulse! Thine the kept estate!

Thine the kissed pilgrim waiting at the gate!

Thine all the world, and all the sky thine own!

Oh, how can I be sad when thou hast come

To tilt the mountains over and climb on,

Like some lost seraph stalking to the cloud!

I speak thee in these vain words and am dumb;

Nay, I but tune my trumpet Protean;

I beckon to thee and I call aloud!