THAT which thou art thou dreamest not—so vast
That lo! time present, time to be, time past,
Are but the sepals of thine opening soul,
Whose flower shall fill the Universe at last.

Thou ponderest of the moon, the stars, the sun,
Whence the winds gather, how the waters run,
But all too lightly deemest of thyself,
Which art a myriad miracles in one.

O My beloved, heir to Mine estate!
Come to Me swiftly, though the hour be late!
Those my five envoys, whom I sent to seek,
Have lured thee from Me, and alone I wait.

I wait to see thy feet with wisdom shod,
Disease and error banished at thy nod;
Sinless, self-dominant, adult, divine,
I wait to see thee walk the earth, a God.
—From “Out of the Silence,” by James Rhoades.

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