Who am I 

that you know my name?

What am I 

that you know my being?

What causes you,

ineffable giver of life,

to cast your eyes on a filthy clod

of dirt, breathing dirt,

like me--

and raise me up

and cry 

to turn me from mud

to clay

to pristine vase?

I fear the fire

I fear the molding,

I fear the forming of my soul.

But I know--

deep inside I know--

the joy of the potter's own.

I have seen, I have envied,

I have not dared to grasp.

But I don't need to.

You grasp.

I need only to be pliant

and to know that you are God.

Song of the Hermit

“Come home, come home!”
They call to me.
But I have wandered far too long
To give up being free.
“Return, O child,
And sit at home!
Return to the arms
Of our glad company!”
But I am used to being alone
And find I’m sufficient for me.
What need have I of mortal men
When I have found the mystic glen?
Why venture where the mad crowds dwell
When I have found the hidden dell?
“Return! Come home!”
They call to me,
But their voices grow so dim.
I do not heed, for I wander on,
Far from the haunts of men.