"What in me is dark

Illumine, what is low raise and support,"

Stoutly prayed my master, Milton,

In his time, when he was dark, being Milton.

In what I mean as hard and honest rhyme,

In my hour, needing the Power he cried to,

I speak to You.

Tell me why I may not hope for praise,

Having somewhat earned it in my days.

Make my sudden angers suddenly over.

Let me discover,

When I hope for nothing new,

Something new, for discovery's sake.

Give me the care of something new to make.

Tell me to turn my searching in

And show me there

That You have always been.

Help me go up when no one knows

How dark, how sick, how secret grows

My fear, though what they think is light is near.

And lift my disorderly mind

That strays and hungers,

Too easily climbs, easily lingers;

O shoulder me up the rock though I seem blind,

Up toward the difficult place

Where I may see John Milton's face.