To M. M. S.
O may these days of pain,
These wasted-seeming days,
Somewhere reflower again
With scent and savour of praise,
Draw out of memory all bitterness
Of night with Thy sun's rays.
And strengthen Thou in me
The love of men here found,
And eager charity,
That, out of difficult ground,
Spring like flowers in barren deserts, or
Like light, or a lovely sound.
A simpler heart than mine
Might have seen beauty clear
When I could see no sign
Of Thee, but only fear.
Strengthen me, make me to see
Thy beauty always
In every happening here.
_In Trenches, March_ 1917.