God; Not Gift

Gray clouds my heaven have covered o'er;             My sea ebbs fast, no more to flow;         Ghastly and dry, my desert shore             Parched, bare, unsightly things doth show.         'Tis thou, Lord, cloudest up my sky;             Stillest the heart-throb of my sea;         Tellest the sad wind not to sigh,             Yea, life itself to wait for thee!         Lord, here I am, empty enough!             My music but a soundless moan!         Blind hope, of all my household stuff,             Leaves me, blind hope, not quite alone!         Shall hope too go, that I may trust             Purely in thee, and spite of all?         Then turn my very heart to dust--             On thee, on thee, I yet will call.         List! list! his wind among the pines             Hark! hark! that rushing is his sea's!         O Father, these are but thy signs!--             For thee I hunger, not for these!         Not joy itself, though pure and high--             No gift will do instead of thee!         Let but my spirit know thee nigh,             And all the world may sleep for me!