1.
THE song birds that come to me night and morn， Fly oft away and vanish if I sleep， Nor to my fowling-net will one return：
Is the thing ever ours we cannot keep？--But their souls go not out into the deep.
What matter if with changed song they come back？
Old strength nor yet fresh beauty shall they lack.
2.
Gloriously wasteful， O my Lord， art thou！
Sunset faints after sunset into the night， Splendorously dying from thy window-sill--For ever. Sad our poverty doth bow Before the riches of thy making might：
Sweep from thy space thy systems at thy will--In thee the sun sets every sunset still.
3.
And in the perfect time， O perfect God， When we are in our home， our natal home， When joy shall carry every sacred load， And from its life and peace no heart shall roam， What if thou make us able to make like thee--To light with moons， to clothe with greenery， To hang gold sunsets o'er a rose and purple sea！
4.
Then to his neighbour one may call out， "Come！
Brother， come hither--I would show you a thing；"
And lo， a vision of his imagining， Informed of thought which else had rested dumb， Before the neighbour's truth-delighted eyes， In the great 鎡her of existence rise， And two hearts each to each the closer cling！
5.
We make， but thou art the creating core.
Whatever thing I dream， invent， or feel， Thou art the heart of it， the atmosphere.
Thou art inside all love man ever bore；
Yea， the love itself， whatever thing be dear.
Man calls his dog， he follows at his heel， Because thou first art love， self-caused， essential， mere.
6.
This day be with me， Lord， when I go forth， Be nearer to me than I am able to ask.
In merriment， in converse， or in task， Walking the street， listening to men of worth， Or greeting such as only talk and bask， Be thy thought still my waiting soul around， And if He come， I shall be watching found.
7.
What if， writing， I always seem to leave Some better thing， or better way， behind， Why should I therefore fret at all， or grieve！
The worse I drop， that I the better find；
The best is only in thy perfect mind.
Fallen threads I will not search for--I will weave.
Who makes the mill-wheel backward strike to grind！
8.
Be with me， Lord. Keep me beyond all prayers：
For more than all my prayers my need of thee， And thou beyond all need， all unknown cares；
What the heart's dear imagination dares， Thou dost transcend in measureless majesty All prayers in one--my God， be unto me Thy own eternal self， absolutely.
9.
Where should the unknown treasures of the truth Lie， but there whence the truth comes out the most--In the Son of man， folded in love and ruth？
Fair shore we see， fair ocean； but behind Lie infinite reaches bathing many a coast--The human thought of the eternal mind， Pulsed by a living tide， blown by a living wind.
10.
Thou， healthful Father， art the Ancient of Days， And Jesus is the eternal youth of thee.
Our old age is the scorching of the bush By life's indwelling， incorruptible blaze.
O Life， burn at this feeble shell of me， Till I the sore singed garment off shall push， Flap out my Psyche wings， and to thee rush.
11.
But shall I then rush to thee like a dart？
Or lie long hours 鎜nian yet betwixt This hunger in me， and the Father's heart？--It shall be good， how ever， and not ill；
Of things and thoughts even now thou art my next；
Sole neighbour， and no space between， thou art--And yet art drawing nearer， nearer still.
12.
Therefore， my brothers， therefore， sisters dear， However I， troubled or selfish， fail In tenderness， or grace， or service clear， I every moment draw to you more near；
God in us from our hearts veil after veil Keeps lifting， till we see with his own sight， And all together run in unity's delight.
13.
I love thee， Lord， for very greed of love--Not of the precious streams that towards me move， But of the indwelling， outgoing， fountain store.
Than mine， oh， many an ignorant heart loves more！
Therefore the more， with Mary at thy feet， I must sit worshipping--that， in my core， Thy words may fan to a flame the low primeval heat.
14.
Oh my beloved， gone to heaven from me！
I would be rich in love to heap you with love；
I long to love you， sweet ones， perfectly--Like God， who sees no spanning vault above， No earth below， and feels no circling air--Infinitely， no boundary anywhere.
I am a beast until I love as God doth love.
15.
Ah， say not， 'tis but perfect self I want But if it were， that self is fit to live Whose perfectness is still itself to scant， Which never longs to have， but still to give.
A self I must have， or not be at all：
Love， give me a self self-giving--or let me fall To endless darkness back， and free me from life's thrall.
16.
"Back，" said I！ Whither back？ How to the dark？
>From no dark came I， but the depths of light；
>From the sun-heart I came， of love a spark：
