Shall The Dead Praise Thee?

I cannot praise thee. By his instrument         The master sits, and moves nor foot nor hand;     For see the organ-pipes this, that way bent,         Leaning, o'erthrown, like wheat-stalks tempest-fanned!     I well could praise thee for a flower, a dove,         But not for life that is not life in me;     Not for a being that is less than love--         A barren shoal half lifted from a sea!     Unto a land where no wind bloweth ships         Thy wind one day will blow me to my own:     Rather I'd kiss no more their loving lips         Than carry them a heart so poor and prone!     I bless thee, Father, thou art what thou art,         That thou dost know thyself what thou dost know--     A perfect, simple, tender, rhythmic heart,         Beating its blood to all in bounteous flow.     And I can bless thee too for every smart,         For every disappointment, ache, and fear;     For every hook thou fixest in my heart,         For every burning cord that draws me near.     But prayer these wake, not song. Thyself I crave.         Come thou, or all thy gifts away I fling.     Thou silent, I am but an empty grave:         Think to me, Father, and I am a king!     My organ-pipes will then stand up awake,         Their life soar, as from smouldering wood the blaze;     And swift contending harmonies shall shake         Thy windows with a storm of jubilant praise.