The picturings of worlds are all things changing aye amain;
The showing of the Hidden Treasure is this raging main,
This work, this business of the Lord, this Majesty made plain.
Oh, that I knew what here I am, that which indeed is mine!
Now void, now full, are Possibility's storehouses vast;
This glass-lined world's the mirror where Lights Twain their phases cast;
The blinded thing—in scattering strange fruits its hours are past;
Ruined hath this old Vineyard been by autumn's sullen blast.
Oh, that I knew what here I am, that which indeed is mine!