I haven't a clue

As I ponder’d in silence,
Returning upon my poems, considering, lingering long,
A Phantom arose before me, with distrustful aspect,
Terrible in beauty, age, and power,
The genius of poets of old lands,
As to me directing like flame its eyes,
With finger pointing to many immortal songs,
And menacing voice, What singest thou? it said;
Know’st thou not, there is but one theme for ever-enduring bards?
And that is the theme of War, the fortune of battles,
The making of perfect soldiers?

Be it so, then I answer’d,
I too, haughty Shade, also sing war—and a longer and greater one than any,
Waged in my book with varying fortune—with flight, advance, and retreat—Victory deferr’d and wavering,
(Yet, methinks, certain, or as good as certain, at the last,)—The field the world;
For life and death—for the Body, and for the eternal Soul,
Lo! too am come, chanting the chant of battles,
I, above all, promote brave soldiers.

I feel constrained to give out thoughts and great, ponderous pronouncements on how amazing that God could use me and to tell everyone how much I enjoyed the work that God did in my life this summer. And then I realize that I'm no better than Whitman doing my own promoting of my accomplishments and trying to make people to see how much I gave for this summer.

But in the end I am tongue-tied.

My mouth is as empty as my brain is full.

And I am remanded into silence.

To God be the Glory