THE PRAYER
161
In the rasp of a small suburban home Where the dull day ends as the day began: . . .As rich as the hues of a mousmee's fanMay the waft of colour on thought-winds come.
In the ward where the sick man lies, too still, And hears the moan of the fever case: . . . Lord bring the dream to that pallid place,A wild bird's song on an April hill;
With blaze of blossom for closing eyes, With the sweet of rain on a dusty tree, The dance of poppies beside the sea:A lazy moon in October skies. . .
By broken windows where spiders swing O'er the filthy lane, make the vision glow, To shallow porches where roses growAnd the gauze of the gloaming tastes of spring.
Set the soul ajar that the dreams may flit Gold butterflies o'er our sombre scheme: Be we coining money or losing it. . .Lord, make us never too wise to dream!
