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!