What is mine to give Thee here, for all is Thine that doth appear,
All that doth by labour accrue, by aimed intent and the perchance too;

This day on the year last, I deemed for Thee a persistent gift,
One not from Nature plucked, nor shaped by a stranger’s hand;

In the surge of moments, in the cascade of events,
Whether on placid waves drifting or in hell-floods floundering,

Through excess of storms, through the tattered sails,
Through aimless seasons, through oppressing hours,

Into my muse I withdrew and sought keen an offering true,
The good and ill into my being did go, so did joy and the singular woe,

From them all I brewed for Thee some verse hymned by heart of me;
A year long worth of dawns, a year long worth of dusks,

A year long length of days, a year long length of nights,
I have laboured with Thy secret fire and close the circle of the ritual year.