Mine is the shape forever set between
The thought and form, the vision and the deed;
The hidden light, the glory all unseen,
I bring to mortal senses, mortal need.
Who loves me not, my sorrowing slave is he,
Bent with the burden, knowing oft the rod;
But he who loves me shall my master be,
And use me with the joyance of a god.
Man's lord or servant, still I am his friend;
Desire for me is simple as his breath;
Yea, waiting, old and patient, for the end,
He prays that he may find me after death!