I pace the garden paths alone,
Waiting till the close of day;
It is not well aloud to moan,
So end I this small book straightway.
Silence goes with me gently here,
Within, it sits wrapped round with fear.
So, gloaming-lit I walk and pray
Now to be led in God's right way,
And made to say
Even thus His will, not mine, be done,
Though not the less the mid-day sun
Has lost for me its light and heat;
His will, and only His, is meet.