YOU do not like my altar-smoke, Nor find me bent enough in prayer; Is it for this that you invoke Sorrow to bend me with despair? No gaudy tribute do I pay, No hurt my voice to sing your praise; Is it for this that you display Pain that can quench my burning days? Or is it that I dared to ask Why I was made, and to what end You gave short days for my long task, Who had eternity to lend? So will I question, nor be done Till I fall weary, and submit— I, who was once oblivion, And straightway must return to it! |