Shall the Dead Praise Thee? + 

I cannot praise thee. By his instrument + 

The master sits, and moves nor foot nor hand; + 

For see the organ-pipes this, that way bent, + 

Leaning, o’erthrown, like wheat-stalks tempest-fanned! + 

I well could praise thee for a flower, a dove, + 

But not for life that is not life in me; + 

Not for a being that is less than love⁠— + 

A barren shoal half lifted from a sea! + 

Unto a land where no wind bloweth ships + 

Thy wind one day will blow me to my own: + 

Rather I’d kiss no more their loving lips + 

Than carry them a heart so poor and prone! + 

I bless thee, Father, thou art what thou art, + 

That thou dost know thyself what thou dost know⁠— + 

A perfect, simple, tender, rhythmic heart, + 

Beating its blood to all in bounteous flow. + 

And I can bless thee too for every smart, + 

For every disappointment, ache, and fear; + 

For every hook thou fixest in my heart, + 

For every burning cord that draws me near. + 

But prayer these wake, not song. Thyself I crave. + 

Come thou, or all thy gifts away I fling. + 

Thou silent, I am but an empty grave: + 

Think to me, Father, and I am a king! + 

My organ-pipes will then stand up awake, + 

Their life soar, as from smouldering wood the blaze; + 

And swift contending harmonies shall shake + 

Thy windows with a storm of jubilant praise. + 