I called that need my Soul That surged from somewhere North, And knew I died inside all days If not to follow forth.

I called that crucible my Craft That caught its urge, caught hold, And spoke its spark in spellings That its spirit might be told.

I called that dread my Evil That threw threats— I know not where to, Malice marring, hissing horrid, hard: “Ye know not what ye do.”

I called in fright— and Conscience Taught, in spite of spite, to live, And gave me so what I do know— That I must know to give.

I called their music hither, And felt the harmonies bid To set in word what I had heard— And, as it bade, I did

That I might stand so whole now, With my impulse, all alone. And I built a bed of Poetry, And I called that bed my own.

Birthed of a God, of men forsworn To order parcels of content, and leave My legacy before my last reprieve, I exited the door.

What sun! A sun so shining in a promise Glowing from its place, And calls the calls I know I’ve heard before, But that never seemed to draw me from a door, And tell me: tell them of yourself, and more.

All this had stood, and I had stank insane-! In sinful sacked lost wastefulness I wept To curry o’er that secret that I’d kept That I’d no secret! I in rank disease Would dare the world to damn me if it please…

A boulevard of trees! Each arching down to me to lift me past the sky Where I may seek to be (all things that I Could hope to be) – a hoper, one to spark Your hopes to be fulfilled. – All round the park, The trees are raising tendrils fast in joy To justly raise to God a new-born boy.

Oh World, you are my midwife now, and I Shall make my grateful mark all over thee, Until in my will you new-born shall be.

I have no time for lies. Hushed air waits – not a sound. This world is heaven-sent, and I am heaven-bound.

Oh, God Maker of all I know Maker of where I go And why, A song do I Give up to Thee: Maker of every longing tree And of the sun to which they strive, Master of all that is alive, Let me be me!