Nor an impious denying
Of thy will—which evermore on earth, in heaven, be done;
But a love that, desperate, clings
Unto these, my precious things,
In the beauty of the daylight, and glory of the sun.
Ah! thou still art calling, calling,
With a soft voice unappalling;
And it vibrates in far circles through the everlasting years;
When thou knockest, even so!
I will arise and go: