Thou know'st, O Lord, my spirit's dearth
Thou see'st the worth of what I bring
The evil blossoms of the earth,
The light upon a perished thing.
Thou see'st my sick and weary mood:
The moon is dark, the dawn is slain.
Thy glory on my solitude
Shed Thou like fructifying rain.
Light Thou, O Lord, beneath my feet
The way my weary soul should pass,
For now the pain of all things sweet
Is piteous as the ice-bound grass.