Imperfection

Not the returning spell Of summer on the thousand-blossomed tree Lessons me half so well What heaven may be As the nipped bud along the Autumn croft, Spent in a time too rare, And far aloft The late lark singing in the year's despair.

Not the full splendour-roll Of music echoing where the saints have trod Summons me, O my soul, So quick to God, As the weak voices with their psalm unspoken, Lost vision, stammering prayer, And hearts long broken That lift from earth to heaven His mercy's stair.