My little soul I never saw,
Nor can I count its days;
I do not know its wondrous law
And yet I know its ways.
Oh, it is young as morning-hours,
And old as is the night;
Oh, it has growth of budding flowers,
Yet tastes my body's blight.
And it is silent and apart,
And far and fair and still,
Yet ever beats within my heart,
And cries within my will.
And it is light and bright and strange,
And sees life far away,
Yet far with near can interchange
And dwell within the day.
My soul has died a thousand deaths,
And yet it does not die;
My soul has broke a thousand faiths,
And yet it cannot lie;
My soul--there's naught can make it less;
My soul--there's naught can mar;
Yet here it weeps with loneliness
Within its lonely star.
My soul--not any dark can bind,
Nor hinder any hand,
Yet here it weeps--long blind, long blind--
And cannot understand.
