Thou in whose All no work imperfect stands, 

   Thou who dost gaze on Beauty's unveiled face, 

   Grant to Thy children Thy sustaining grace, 

   When low at length have run the daylight sands,— 

   When, though their day was set to Thy commands, 

   They bow contritely in prayer's holy place, 

   Because through strivings beauty-wards they trace 

   The sad misshapings of their earthly hands: 

   Grant them at eve a soul devoutly still, 

   Grant them in dreams a vision of Thy light, 

   Grant them at morn a sorrow purged away 

   Into the peace of all-absolving night, 

   Star in the dawnlight of a fairer day, 

   Nearer the blossom of Thy perfect Will. 

 Prev. P 13/13