The Prism

I.     A pool of broken sunbeams lay         Upon the passage-floor,     Radiant and rich, profound and gay         As ever diamond bore.     Small, flitting hands a handkerchief         Spread like a cunning trap:     Prone lay the gorgeous jewel-sheaf         In the glory-gleaner's lap!     Deftly she folded up the prize,         With lovely avarice;     Like one whom having had made wise,         She bore it off in bliss.     But ah, when for her prisoned gems         She peeped, to prove them there,     No glories broken from their stems         Lay in the kerchief bare!     For still, outside the nursery door,         The bright persistency,     A molten diadem on the floor,         Lay burning wondrously.     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.