from Diary of an Old Soul

Sometimes, hard-trying, it seems I cannot pray—
For doubt, and pain, and anger, and all strife,
Yet some poor half-fledged prayer-bird from the nest
May fall, flit, fly, perch—crouch in the bowery breast
Of the large, nation-healing tree of life;
Moveless there sit through all the burning day
And on my heart at night a fresh leaf cooling lay.
~George MacDonald