Poetry Archives

They all were looking for a king
  To slay their foes, and lift them high:
Thou cam’st a little baby thing
  That made a woman cry.

O son of man, to right my lot
  Nought but thy presence can avail;
Yet on the road thy wheels are not,
  Nor on the sea thy sail!

My fancied ways why shouldst thou heed?
  Thou com’st down thine own secret stair:
Com’st down to answer all my need,
  Yea, every bygone prayer!