The old order changeth, yielding place to new,
And God fulfills himself in many ways,
Lest one good custom should corrupt the world.
Comfort thyself: what comfort is in me?
I have lived my life, and that which I have done
May he within himself make pure! but thou,
If thou shouldst never see my face again,
Pray for my soul...

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. . . More things are wrought by prayer
Than this world dreams of. Wherefore let thy voice
Rise like a fountain for me night and day.
For what are men better than sheeps or goats
That nourish a blind life within the brain,
If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer
Not only for themselves but for those who call them friend?
For so this whole round earth is every way
Bound by gold chains about the feet of God.

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Cleave ever to the sunnier side of doubt,
And cling to faith beyond the forms of faith;
She reels not at the storm of warring words;
She brightens at the clash of 'Yes' and 'No';
She sees the best that glimmers through the worst;
She feels the sun is hid for the night;
She spies the summer through the winter bud;
She tastes the fruit before the blossom falls;
She hears the lark within the songless egg;
She finds the fountain where they wailed 'Mirage!'

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