114 
AMBERGRIS 
Is fit for children.  We are too well ware 
How vain is prayer, 
How nought is great, since all is immanent, 
The vast content 
Of all the universe unalterable. 
We know too well 
How no one thing abides awhile at all, 
How things fall, 
Fall from their seat, the lamentable place, 
Before their face, 
Weary and pass and are no more.  So we, 
Since hope must be, 
Look to the future, to the chance minute 
That life may shoot 
Some flower at least to blossom in the night, 
Since vital light 
Is sure to fail us on the hideous way. 
What ?  Must we pray ? 
Verily, O thou littlest babe, too weak 
To stir or speak, 
Capable hardly of a thought, yet seed 
Of word and deed ? 
To thine assured fruition we may trust 
This weary dust. 
We who are old, and palsied, (and so wise !) 
Lift up our eyes 
To little children, as the storm-tossed bark 
Hails in the dark 
Some hardly visible harbour light ;  we hold 
The hours of gold 
To our own breasts, whose hours are iron and brass :— 
So swift they pass 
And grind us down :  we hold the wondrous light 
Our scattering sight 
Yet sees, the one star in a night of woe. 
We trust, and so 
Lift up our voices in the dying day 
Indeed to pray : 
“ O little hands that are so soft and strong,” 
“ Lead us along ! ”