SMOKE.

Lord, I have laid my heart upon thy altar

But cannot get the wood to burn;

It hardly flares ere it begins to falter

And to the dark return.

Old sap, or night-fallen dew, makes damp the fuel;

In vain my breath would flame provoke;

Yet see — at every poor attempt's renewal

To thee ascends the smoke!

‘ Tis all I have — smoke, failure, foiled endeavour,

Coldness and doubt and palsied lack:

Such as I have I send thee!— perfect Giver,

Send thou thy lightning back.