When prayer is wingless, or her wing
Droops earthward like some weary thing?
Yet did no bent and broken light
Pierce the dark vault of utter night,
Of hope or memory no ray,
Who could abide His cold one day?
Summer and winter, sun and rain,
The soul needs for her golden grain—
Warm sun, warm rain, the ear to fill,
His cold, love’s selfishness to kill.