God let me give you now this mind of dying

fevering me back

into consciousness of all I lack

and of that consciousness becoming proud:

There are keener griefs than God.

They come quietly, and in plain daylight,

leaving us with nothing, and the means to feel it.

My God my grief forgive my grief tamed in language

to a fear that I can bear.

Make of my anguish

more than I can make. Lord, hear my prayer.