I. br br I see thy house, but I am blown about, br A wind-mocked kite, between the earth and sky, br All out of doors-alas! of thy doors out, br And drenched in dews no summer suns can dry. br br For every blast is passion of my own; br The dews cold sweats of selfish agony; br Dank vapour steams from memories lying prone; br And all my soul is but a stifled cry. br br II. br br Lord, thou dost hold my string, else were I driven br Down to some gulf where I were tossed no more, br No turmoil telling I was not in heaven, br No billows raving on a blessed shore. br br Thou standest on thy door-sill, calm as day, br And all my throbs and pangs are pulls from thee; br Hold fast the string, lest I should break away br And outer dark and silence swallow me. br br III. br br No longer fly thy kite, Lord; draw me home. br Thou pull'st the string through all the distance bleak; br Lord, I am nearing thee; O Lord, I come; br Thy pulls grow stronger and the wind grows weak. br br In thy remodelling hands thou tak'st thy kite; br A moment to thy bosom hold'st me fast.