Time after time I came to your gate
with raised hands, asking for more and yet more.
You gave and gave, now in
slow measure, now in sudden excess.
I took some, and some things I let
drop; some lay heavy on my hands;
some I made into playthings and broke
them when tired; till the wrecks and
the hoard of your gifts grew imense,
hiding you, and the ceaseless expectation
wore my heart out.
Take, oh take - has now become my cry.
Shatter all from this beggar's bowl;
put out the lamp of the importunate
watcher; hold my hands, raise me from
the still-gathering heap of your gifts
into the bare infinity of your uncrowded
presence.