Come to me, Lord: I will not speculate how,
Nor think at which door I would have thee appear,
Nor put off calling till my floors be swept,
But cry, "Come, Lord, come any way, come now."
[Doors, windows, I throw wide; my head I bow,
And sit like some one who so long has slept
That he knows nothing till his life draw near.]1

Thou wilt interpret life to me, and men, 
art, nature, [yea]1 my own soul's mysteries;
bringing truth out, clear joyous to my ken,
Fair as the morn trampling the dull night.
Then the lone hillside shall hear exultant cries;
The joyous see me joy, the weeping weep;
The watching smile, as Death breathes on me his cold sleep.