Classic Poem

WHEREIN HE MAKES CONFESSION AND ENTREATS THE LORD'S GRACE

Weeping, I still regret the years that went
In empty sacrifice to mortal things;
No swooping starward, though my soul had wings
Which might have brushed Thy burning element.
O Thou, that know'st so well how I repent,
Sovereign of space, immortal King of Kings,
Succour the soul torn with self-torturings —
To Thee it turns: O prove Thou provident!
To my war-shattered life appoint Thou still
Death as the port of peace; and if my course
Was idle, let it find a quiet hill!
O for the brief remainder, let remorse
Not darken, let Thy hand the end fulfill!
Thou know'st in Thee alone rests my resource!