So heed me now, though all my quondam whispers rise
From darknesses and little deaths You did despise
Or seemed to. Your tremendous volte-face preyed each year
Upon my gullibility to bend Your ear
And racked this ruined soul with frames of phantom guilt.
Your accidental turning broke the barns I built
To store, unrealized, the mildewed fruit I bore.
I listened and ran bleating to Your closing door.
But when You turned I never saw Your fabled smile
But wept upon Your thorny brow, to lose my guile
Where rivulets of blood do still obscure Your eyes
And gather where my hopes and weathered dreaming dies.
But here I lie, and ever did I, catlike, do.
For once, I now remember, where the olives grew
With mists between the small hills and dawn on the felled
Ancient castellations of the marches, You held
My eyes and opened them on glimpses of Your face.
And have You changed? Is this why now there is no trace?
But now I think I mind a moonlit path I walked
Where all the trees were dancing with Your voice and talked
Between themselves and lifted their long-fingered praise.
And You stopped me like a traveller with Your gaze
And bade me lift this old, old burden from my back.
You have not changed. But surely I must learn my lack.
Then other places where Your love drew near, precious
And strong, or weeping and long, like milestones, conscious
Of me, spread along these dusts. I pine in my sleep,
Now. Now Your mercies crowd upon me from some deep
And dead forgotten cavern of my wayward heart.
I am the lost sheep. But no sooner do we start
Back on the pasture than I stray among the rocks
Or bandy words with, here, a wolf or, there, a fox.
Brand my hide with Your blood-red love, sacred shepherd.
Teach me the strong timbre of Your speech that, once heard,
Will ever be obeyed. And lead me, lead me now,
To grasses greener, sweeter than the heart knows how.