O only Source of all our light and life,
Whom as our truth, our strength, we see and feel,
But whom the hours of mortal moral strife
Alone aright reveal!

Mine inmost soul, before Thee inly brought,
Thy presence owns ineffable, divine;
Chastised each rebel self-encentered thought,
My will adoreth Thine.

With eye down-dropt, if then this earthly mind
Speechless remain, or speechless e’en depart;
Nor seek to see—for what of earthly kind
Can see Thee as Thou art?—

If well-assured ’tis but profanely bold
In thought’s abstractest forms to seem to see,
It dare not dare the dread communion hold
In ways unworthy Thee,

O not unowned, thou shalt unnamed forgive,
In worldly walks the prayerless heart prepare;
And if in work its life it seem to live,
Shalt make that work be prayer.

Nor times shall lack, when while the work it plies,
Unsummoned powers the blinding film shall part,
And scarce by happy tears made dim, the eyes
In recognition start.

But, as thou willest, give or e’en forbear
The beatific supersensual sight,
So, with Thy blessing blest, that humbler prayer
Approach Thee morn and night.

Turning down the lane, we heard a scuffle,
A trample, jostle, and snort.
They were crowded in the dusk before our cottage
To see were we their sort;

But they scared before our footsteps coming slowly,
Scattering past us up the lane,
The ragamuffin vagabonds of ponies,
Trotting hoof and flopping mane.

And by night, coming home across the common,
With the moon behind a cloud,
You would very nearly stumble on them grazing
Till they loomed and snorted loud,

Pretending they were gobbiluns or ghaisties,
Whereas, do you suppose
The apocalyptic horse in Revelations
Had a pushing velvet nose?

There were pigs that routed mast beneath the oak-trees,
There were birds to trill and call,
There were pleasant dogs, but still I think the ponies
Were the best beasts of all;

And I wish that I were strolling with my ashplant
To our cottage down the lane,
And I wish that you were there to cast your glamour
Over books and tea again;

And I wish that it was dusk and we were homing,
Turning off beside the pond,
Almost laughing once again to hear them snorting
In the dusk down beyond

Where they huddled thrusting heads across the wicket
Of our cottage, to report
To the rabbits and the badgers in the Forest
Whether we were of their sort.