I hoped to teach you when you were a man.
I cannot fall to whining round the threshold
Where Death awaited you. I lack the skill
Of hands for ever working out a fresh hold
On life. In mystic ways I serve you still.
The age of miracles is not yet ended.
As on the humble feast of Galilee
Surely a touch of heaven has descended
On the cheap earthen vessel, even on me,
Whose weak content—the soul I travail under—