Learning To Pray

My inmost soul, O Lord, to thee Leans like a growing flower Unto the light. I do not know The day nor blessed hour When that deep-rooted, daring growth We call the heart's desire Shall burst and blossom to a prayer Within the sacred fire Of thy great patience; grow so pure, So still, so sweet a thing As perfect prayer must surely be. And yet my heart will sing Because thou seem'st sometimes so near. Close-present God! to me, It seems I could not have a wish That was not shared by thee; It seems I cannot be afraid To speak my longings out, So tenderly thy gathering love Enfolds me round about; It seems as if my heart would break, If, living on the light I should not lift to thee at last A bud of flawless white. And yet, O helpless heart! how sweet To grow, and bud, and say: The flower, however marred or wan, Shall not be cast away.