I would but only this:

I wish that I could go

And see the thing that is,

And, seeing, better know;

And take things in my hand

And find if false or fit;

But in this far-off land

What hope is there of it?

There is no hope of it;

I see but sad despair,

Unless it may be writ

God cureth care by care.

So one in prison thrust;

He ages span by span,

But in the prison dust

Becomes a better man.

I thought that I might rise

And, looking to the stars,

Lift up my blinded eyes

And bless God unawares,

In words whose merit this—

Poor buds of blighting air—

To know no loveliness

But breathe the scent of prayer;

Since Heaven hath decreed

Who suffers lives with God,

And he who writes indeed

Must write in his own blood

I thought, tho’ fetter’d fast,

I yet might move my hands

To cast or to recast

Some labour—sift the sands

For knowledge—search the vast

Some hidden hope to find—

Perhaps to help at last

The cause of humankind.

O hope abandon’d! Not

In me the worth or wit.

God gave this lowly lot

Because I merit it.

In humble ways I move

Myself to little things;

The heated hands I prove,

I watch the light that springs

Or fades in fever’d eyes;

My only solace here,

Not to be rich or wise

But to have done with fear.

God sees the silent space

Where footstep never trod;

And in the lonely place

The listener is God.