THE woman singeth at her spinning-wheel
A pleasant chant, ballad or barcarolle;
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 controul.
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 stedfast; 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.