A Vision Of St. Eligius

I.     I see thy house, but I am blown about,         A wind-mocked kite, between the earth and sky,     All out of doors--alas! of thy doors out,         And drenched in dews no summer suns can dry.     For every blast is passion of my own;         The dews cold sweats of selfish agony;     Dank vapour steams from memories lying prone;         And all my soul is but a stifled cry.     II.     Lord, thou dost hold my string, else were I driven         Down to some gulf where I were tossed no more,     No turmoil telling I was not in heaven,         No billows raving on a blessed shore.     Thou standest on thy door-sill, calm as day,         And all my throbs and pangs are pulls from thee;     Hold fast the string, lest I should break away         And outer dark and silence swallow me.     III.     No longer fly thy kite, Lord; draw me home.         Thou pull'st the string through all the distance bleak;     Lord, I am nearing thee; O Lord, I come;         Thy pulls grow stronger and the wind grows weak.     In thy remodelling hands thou tak'st thy kite;         A moment to thy bosom hold'st me fast.     Thou flingest me abroad:--lo, in thy might         A strong-winged bird I soar on every blast!