Hungry, hungry, heart-hungry,
While there is love enough and to spare!
O pilgrim, suffer not dearth with its gloom and its thrust!
For the bread and the wine of the feast are thy share—
Thy meat, not scraps, with bones that are polished and
bare—
And with fuel thy hearthstone is heaped, not ashes and dust.
Hungry, hungry, heart-hungry,
While the viands of Love at thy fingertips lie!
What criest thy pain— at thy Tantalus-touch they recede?
Nay; to thy longing, advancing, they multiply,
Imparting abundance for want, a smile for a sigh—
Giving comfort and strength through the night of thy need.
Hungry, hungry, heart-hungry,
For the joys of the flesh or the glories of Mind?
O sufferer, Spirit and Spirit alone is thy quest!
The wonderful love of the Master thy wounds can bind;
Hearken! He calleth the poor and the halt and the blind:—
And there in His outstretched arms are healing and rest.
