When I had shut the book, I said,
"Now, as for me, my dreams upon my bed
Are not like Jacob's dream;
Yet I have got it in my life; yes, I,
And many more: it doth not us beseem,
Therefore, to sigh.
Is there not hung a ladder in our sky?
Yea; and, moreover, all the way up on high
Is thickly peopled with the prayers of men.
We have no dream! What then?
Like winged wayfarers the height they scale
(By Him that offers them they shall prevail),--
The prayers of men.
But where is found a prayer for me;
How should I pray?
My heart is sick, and full of strife.
I heard one whisper with departing breath,
'Suffer us not, for any pains of death,
To fall from Thee.'
But O, the pains of life! the pains of life!
There is no comfort now, and naught to win,
But yet,--I will begin."
I.
"Preserve to me my wealth," I do not say,
For that is wasted away;
And much of it was cankered ere it went.
"Preserve to me my health." I cannot say,
For that, upon a day,
Went after other delights to banishment.
II.
What can I pray? "Give me forgetfulness"?
No, I would still possess
Past away smiles, though present fronts be stern.
"Give me again my kindred?" Nay; not so,
Not idle prayers. We know
They that have crossed the river cannot return.
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