First God, Gibran

Nay, unto eternity unmoulded I would give my hands,
And to untrodden fields assign my feet.
What joy is there in songs oft heard,
Whose tune the remembering ear arrests
Ere the breath yields it to the wind?
My heart longs for what my heart concevies not,
And unto the unknown where memory dwells not
I would command my spirit.
Oh, tempt me not with glory possessed,
And seek not to comfort me in with your dream or mine,
For all that shall be, inviteth not my soul.
 Oh my soul,
 Silent in thy face,
   And in thine eyes the shadows of night are sleeping,
   But terrible is thy silence,
   And thou art terrible.