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.

THERE are, in this loud stunning tide

Of human care and crime,

With whom the melodies abide

Of th’ everlasting clime:

Who carry music in their heart

Through dusky lane and wrangling mart, 

And ply their daily task with busier feet

Because their hearts some holy strain repeat.