Slowly the gray drifts in again.

Dimmer grow the crowding faces.

A play, or book, a thing of pleasure once,

Now, half-seen, becomes a pain.

The trees and lights and faces of my friends

Grow less clear, blur and are uncertain.

I have never begged before,

But my prayer, my Father, hear:

Let me look once more

With sure and undimmed vision at her eyes,

That softly shine, as clear

And blue, a some far corner of your skies.