Work And Contemplation

The woman singeth at her spinning-wheel

A pleasant chant, ballad or barcarole;

She thinketh of her song, upon the whole,

Far more than of her flax; and yet the reel

Is full, and artfully her fingers feel

With quick adjustment, provident control,

The lines–too subtly twisted to unroll–

Out to a perfect thread. I hence appeal

To the dear Christian Church–that we may do

Our Father’s business in these temples mirk,

Thus swift and steadfast, thus intent and strong;

While thus, apart from toil, our souls pursue

Some high calm spheric tune, and prove our work

The better for the sweetness of our song.