If I become, in any sense, divine
Or more than human to your
questing eyes;
If, seeing me, you see not
what I am, but what you
wish to see, see me instead!
If I pretend to soul-perfectedness,
know that within me lies
the crying child who, seeking
comfort, lies within us all.
If ever you should think I
have no need of words or
touches, or of thoughts or
deeds. Think once more:
For the well of needfulness
in me is deeper than the
sounding sea.
Yet what I take is but
what I return.
No pedestal for me:
My feet are clay
As every other's who has
passed this way.
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