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 æther 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.