Prayer

O Love, behold how steep the path has grown, —
Almost too steep for any feet to tread,
To thee I call, to thee I bow my head:
In solitude, with men, but still alone,
My heart hath made perpetually its moan.
Yea, as the living call upon the dead,
Stretching their empty arms across the bed
Where lies what yesterday they called their own,

So have I called on thee; but what avails!
Sorrow, grown mad and impious, dominates,
And memory in the darkness sits and wails;
At every step some foe in ambush waits
To snare my feet. O Love, rise up, awake,
And save me swiftly for thy mercy's sake.