MY altar holds a constant flame;
There eager, day by day,
I lay my offering; all the same
In dust it drifts away.

The days return, the seasons turn,
And punctual with the morn
I bring my offering, and I burn
What life from life has torn.

And rarely at the dawn or eve,
And rarely in the night,
Down from the altar I receive
A compensating light.

Therefore in joy I offer still
Myself when day is born;
For late or soon a light will fill
My spirit else forlorn.