As some poor laborer's sightless babe
Wakes from its pallet on the floor
In fear, to find itself alone,
And gropes the open door to find;
Reaching anon the empty air
To clutch; seeking something to grasp
To aid it in its search; and then,
Wearying in its efforts vain,
It lifts its plaintive, grieving wail;
Then pauses, listening softly for
Its mother's answering voice; so I
Kneel down before Thine unseen throne--
So I call to Thee in my prayer
Earnest and deep, yet humble too;
And listen with that inner ear
Far in the soul's remotest depth.
Not for Thy voice to sweep to earth
Answering to my human cry,
As angels in the old times did,
When men were truly, purely Thine;
But for an influence, sweet and still,
To lead my groping soul aright.

As though I, clinging to some hand,
Across a torrent spanned but by
A slender tree's decaying trunk,
Looking not to the shore beyond,
Nor turning, though the pine tree shriek
And wave her arms, and writhe in the grasp
Of the dark storm-fiend, strong in his wrath--
Nor on the current swift beneath,
Lest I should, swooning, fall and sink;
But only where my steps should be.
So will I, clinging, follow Thee
Across life's deep, unmindful of
The strife below.

Other 19th-century Mormon poetry