Breathe the spent mood, Lost act and attitude, Of the small sweetness they endued.
Ere all turn cold No garment that I hold But shakes a vision from its fold
Of little feet That vainly would be fleet, Tangled about with meadow-sweet,
And of bent knees When Betsey kneeling sees, In the parched hedge-row, strawberries.
Such things I see Folding your clothes, which be Weeds of the dead day’s comedy.
The while I pray Your part may be alway So simple and so good to play,
And do desire Your life may still respire Such sweetness as your cast attire.
POST-COMMUNION
Lord, when to Thine embrace I run Gathered like waters to the Sun, Shape me to such celestial mirth As may go back and glad the earth. Let Thy rays compass me, and crowd Into the semblance of a cloud Mine idle and dispersèd powers; That I, the casket of Thy showers, May, for my closeness, coloured be (Howe’er so faintly) like to Thee,