If I have
faltered more or less
In my great
task of happiness;
If I have
moved among my race
And shown no
glorious morning face;
If beams from
happy human eyes
Have moved me
not; if morning skies,
Books, and my
food, and summer rain
Knocked on my
sullen heart in vain;—
Lord, thy most
pointed pleasure take
And stab my
spirit broad awake;
Or, Lord, if
too obdurate I,
Choose Thou,
before that spirit die,
A piercing
pain, a killing sin,
And to my dead
heart run them in."