Evening Songs
XVI
It happened. My soul minus Thee
No longer feels itself as whole;
To think myself without Thee once
Would be as to have lost my soul.
Yes, Thou art woven in my soul
Thou art her pride and her delight—
Thou art my solace, my desire,
My happiness—my pain and plight.
From joyless days Thou heaven weav’st
As does the bride her wedding dress;
In me Thou wak’st, in me Thou dream’st;
What I’m, what Thou, is hard to guess.
It matters not what my fate be—
For I know well its weaving hand.
And should Thy hand destruction bring,
On that, too, heaven might depend.
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