by T. E. Brown
If thou couldst empty all thyself of self,
Like to a shell dishabited,
Then might He find thee on the Ocean shelf,
And say— "This is not dead," —
And fill thee with Himself instead.
But thou art all replete with very thou,
And hast such shrewd activity,
That, when He comes, He says: — "This is enow
Unto itself — ’Twere better let it be:
It is so small and full, there is no room for Me."