History clings to me, a mortgaged sleeve
inducts the conscious reasoning to other strove.
As head above the cloud my famished noel
is reckoned to contingency's faint vowel.
As spirit clings to me, metered exponent
to use my vestige rating in my poem,
Ah, love, were just this usage, I alone
could conquer heart's decisively my own!
But as I am so useless, this unknown
that truth clings not, but ventures to be shown
and thee, abridged by doubt rely on prone,
I, also faint with hope, dissolve condone!
Not patronizing faith, I so recede
the joining of two souls, clings to each need.
Do customize my courage, thus not breed,
the faulting of my trust in God . . . to lead!
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