Classic Poem

A voice called unto me: Know this thing!
I am the voice of your listening,
Calling too loud for you to hear,
I am your distance that lies too near
For you to see! —
And mine was the voice that spoke to me.

I am the door self-barred that stands
Between your prisoned and prisoning hands,
The uninvited that entering,
Is host and guest at his own spread board,
And calls to himself his welcoming.

The voice spoke on and the voice was mine:
I am my thirst and my poured-out wine,
I am my hunger and I, my bread,
I am the path that my own feet tread;
Myself the master of me the slave,
And my hand shall take what that same hand gave.

Oh I am weary! the voice cried on:
I am fatigue that I rest upon,
I am the pain that shall heal my pain,
I am the loss that must count its gain;
For I robbed my own riches! So shall I be
A beggar that lives on my charity.

Now cried the voice and I heard my soul:
I the scattered, contain the whole,
I am the altar and altared there,
I am God with God: and I shall dare
To be my prayer and to grant my prayer!

For I the atom, am Entity.
I am the thought of the Thought to Be.
And the God I created, created me.