WHEN I look back upon my life nigh spent, Nigh spent, although the stream as yet flows on, I more of follies than of sins repent, Less for offence than Love's shortcomings moan. With self, O Father, leave me not alone— Leave not with the beguiler the beguiled; Besmirched and ragged, Lord, take back thine own: A fool I bring thee to be made a child. |