The poem
If thou could'st empty all thyself of self, Like to a shell dishabited, Then might He find thee on the ocean shelf, And say, "This is not dead," And fill thee with Himself instead.
But thou are all replete with very thou And hast such shrewd activity, That when He comes He says, "This is enow Unto itself - 'twere better let it be, It is so small and full, there is no room for me."