True, faithful action only is the life, The grapes for which we feel the pruning knife. Thoughts are but leaves; they fall and feed the ground. The holy seasons, swift and slow, go round; The ministering leaves return, fresh, large, and rife-- But fresher, larger, more thoughts to the brain:-- Farewell, my dove!--come back, hope-laden, through the rain. 11. Well may this body poorer, feebler grow! It is undressing for its last sweet bed; But why should the soul, which death shall never know, Authority, and power, and memory shed? It is that love with absolute faith would wed; God takes the inmost garments off his child, To have him in his arms, naked and undefiled. 12. Thou art my knowledge and my memory, No less than my real, deeper life, my love. I will not fool, degrade myself to trust In less than that which maketh me say Me, In less than that causing itself to be. Then art within me, behind, beneath, above-- I will be thine because I may and must. 13. Thou art the truth, the life. Thou, Lord, wilt see To every question that perplexes me. I am thy being; and my dignity Is written with my name down in thy book; Thou wilt care for it. Never shall I think Of anything that thou mightst overlook:-- In faith-born triumph at thy feet I sink. 14. Thou carest more for that which I call mine, In same sort--better manner than I could, Even if I knew creation's ends divine, Rousing in me this vague desire of good. Thou art more to me than my desires' whole brood; Thou art the only person, and I cry Unto the father I of this my I. 15. Thou who inspirest prayer, then bend'st thine ear; It, crying with love's grand respect to hear! I cannot give myself to thee aright-- With the triumphant uttermost of gift; That cannot be till I am full of light-- To perfect deed a perfect will must lift:-- Inspire, possess, compel me, first of every might. 16. I do not wonder men can ill believe Who make poor claims upon thee, perfect Lord; Then most I trust when most I would receive. I wonder not that such do pray and grieve-- The God they think, to be God is not fit. Then only in thy glory I seem to sit, When my heart claims from thine an infinite accord. 17. More life I need ere I myself can be. Sometimes, when the eternal tide ebbs low, A moment weary of my life I grow-- Weary of my existence' self, I mean, Not of its plodding, not its wind and snow Then to thy knee trusting I turn, and lean: Thou will'st I live, and I do will with thee. 18.