The Prism: II

How oft have I laid fold from fold
And peered into my mind--
To see of all the purple and gold
Not one gleam left behind!

The best of gifts will not be stored:
The manna of yesterday
Has filled no sacred miser-hoard
To keep new need away.

Thy grace, O Lord, it is thyself;
Thy presence is thy light;
I cannot lay it on my shelf,
Or take it from thy sight.

For daily bread we daily pray--
The want still breeds the cry;
And so we meet, day after day,
Thou, Father in heaven, and I.

Is my house dreary, wall and floor,
Will not the darkness flit,
I go outside my shadowy door
And in thy rainbow sit.