Work and Contemplation

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.