I. I See Thy House, But I Am Blown About, A Wind-Mocked Kite, Between The Earth And Sky, All Out Of Doors--Alas! Of Thy Doors Out, And Drenched In Dews No Summer Suns Can Dry. For Every Blast Is Passion Of My Own; The Dews Cold Sweats Of Selfish Agony; Dank Vapour Steams From Memories Lying Prone; And All My Soul Is But A Stifled Cry. Ii. Lord, Thou Dost Hold My String, Else Were I Driven Down To Some Gulf Where I Were Tossed No More, No Turmoil Telling I Was Not In Heaven, No Billows Raving On A Blessed Shore. Thou Standest On Thy Door-Sill, Calm As Day, And All My Throbs And Pangs Are Pulls From Thee; Hold Fast The String, Lest I Should Break Away And Outer Dark And Silence Swallow Me. Iii. No Longer Fly Thy Kite, Lord; Draw Me Home. Thou Pull'St The String Through All The Distance Bleak; Lord, I Am Nearing Thee; O Lord, I Come; Thy Pulls Grow Stronger And The Wind Grows Weak. In Thy Remodelling Hands Thou Tak'St Thy Kite; A Moment To Thy Bosom Hold'St Me Fast. Thou Flingest Me Abroad:--Lo, In Thy Might A Strong-Winged Bird I Soar On Every Blast!