II.

How oft have I laid fold from fold And peered into my mind— To see of all the purple and gold Not one gleam left behind!

The best of gifts will not be stored: The manna of yesterday Has filled no sacred miser-hoard To keep new need away.

Thy grace, O Lord, it is thyself; Thy presence is thy light; I cannot lay it on my shelf, Or take it from thy sight.

For daily bread we daily pray— The want still breeds the cry; And so we meet, day after day, Thou, Father in heaven, and I.

Is my house dreary, wall and floor, Will not the darkness flit, I go outside my shadowy door And in thy rainbow sit.