 | Poems at Home and Abroad |  |
I.
Here where the stream from ancient Sölva's hill
Draws the sweet life and music of the years,
Who wakes at dawn or rests at evening hears
A voice that to his soul doth strength instil.
Sound of the perfect work—the perfect will
That knowing but obedience to the sphere
Moves without present pain or future fear,
To bless all life, all duty to fulfil.
Draws the sweet life and music of the years,
Who wakes at dawn or rests at evening hears
A voice that to his soul doth strength instil.
Sound of the perfect work—the perfect will
That knowing but obedience to the sphere
Moves without present pain or future fear,
To bless all life, all duty to fulfil.
And I who listen in your garden ground
Feel like a guilty thing rebuked and blamed,
For I have done so little yet to bless
With gift of life the weary wilderness.
Yet do I rise, tho' humbled now and shamed,
And go forth stronger to the daily round.
Feel like a guilty thing rebuked and blamed,
For I have done so little yet to bless
With gift of life the weary wilderness.
Yet do I rise, tho' humbled now and shamed,
And go forth stronger to the daily round.
| Poems at Home and Abroad | |