I Held The Golden Vessel Of My Soul And Prayed That God Would Fill It From On High. Day After Day The Importuning Cry Grew Stronger - Grew, A Heaven-Accusing Dole Because No Sacred Waters Laved My Bowl. 'So Full The Fountain, Lord, Wouldst Thou Deny The Little Needed For A Soul'S Supply? I Ask But This Small Portion Of Thy Whole.' Then From The Vast Invisible Somewhere, A Voice, As One Love-Authorised By Him, Spake, And The Tumult Of My Heart Was Stilled. 'Who Wants The Waters Must The Bowl Prepare; Pour Out The Self, That Chokes It To The Brim, But Emptied Vessels, From The Source Are Filled.'