And thou shalt be fulfilled With all sweet things unwilled: So best God loves to jest
With children small—a freak Of heavenly hide-and-seek Fit For thy wayward wit,
Who art thyself a thing Of whim and wavering; Free When His wings pen thee;
Sole fully blest, to feel God whistle thee at heel; Drunk up As a dew-drop,
When He bends down, sun-wise, Intemperable eyes; Most proud, When utterly bowed,
To feel thyself and be His dear nonentity— Caught Beyond human thought
In the thunder-spout of Him, Until thy being dim And be Dead deathlessly.
Stoop, stoop; for thou dost fear The nettle's wrathful spear, So slight Art thou of might!
Rise; for Heaven hath no frown When thou to thee pluck'st down, Strong clod! The neck of God.