Time goes, poor soul, and sterile are thy vows.
After our outwatched nights and feverish brows,
What do we know, save that we nothing know?
Even as a child a butterfly will chase,
Far have I strayed in many a flowering place,
And here I tremble in the afterglow.
Yet not despairing in my feebleness,
But hoping that the Master still will bless
The will to do good that my efforts show.