THE prayers I make will then be sweet indeed
If Thou the spirit give by which I pray:
My unassisted heart is barren clay,
That of its native self can nothing feed:
Of good and pious works thou art the seed,
That quickens only where thou say'st it may:
Unless Thou show to us thine own true way
No man can find it: Father! Thou must lead.
Do Thou, then, breathe those thoughts into my mind
By which such virtue may in me be bred
That in thy holy footsteps I may tread;
The fetters of my tongue do Thou unbind,
That I may have the power to sing of thee,
And sound thy praises everlastingly.
More verses by William Wordsworth
- To The Spade Of A Friend (An Agriculturist)
- The Martial Courage Of A Day Is Vain
- The Morning Of The Day Appointed For A General Thanksgiving. January 18, 1816
- The Last Supper, by Leonardo da Vinci, in the Refectory of the Convent of Maria della Grazia—Milan
- Translation Of Part Of The First Book Of The Aeneid