‘But it is nought:  the work is overhard.’ 
Whose fault is that?  God sets not overwork. 
He saith the world is sorrowful, and he
Is therefore sorrowful.  He cannot set
The crooked straight;—­but who demands of him,
O brother, that he should?  What! thinks he, then,
His work is God’s advantage, and his will
More bent to aid the world than its dread Lord’s? 
Nay, yet there live amongst us legions fair,
Millions on millions, who could do right well
What he must fail in; and ’twas whispered me,
That chiefly for himself the task is given,—­
His little daily task.”  With that he paused.

Then said the other, preening its fair wing,
“Men have discovered all God’s islands now,
And given them names; whereof they are as proud,
And deem themselves as great, as if their hands
Had made them.  Strange is man, and strange his pride. 
Now, as for us, it matters not to learn
What and from whence we be:  How should we tell? 
Our world is undiscovered in these skies,
Our names not whispered.  Yet, for us and ours,
What joy it is,—­permission to come down,
Not souls, as he, to the bosom of their God,
To guide, but to their goal the winged fowls,
His lovely lower-fashioned lives to help
To take their forms by legions, fly, and draw
With us the sweet, obedient, flocking things
That ever hear our message reverently,
And follow us far.  How should they know their way,
Forsooth, alone?  Men say they fly alone;
Yet some have set on record, and averred,
That they, among the flocks, had duly marked
A leader.” 
            Then his fellow made reply: 
“They might divine the Maker’s heart.  Come forth,
Fair dove, to find the flocks, and guide their wings,
For Him that loveth them.” 
                             With that, the child
Withdrew his hand, and all their speech was done. 
He moved toward them, but they fluttered forth
And fled into the sunshine. 
                             “I would fain,”
Said he, “have heard some more.  And wilt thou go?”
He added to the child, for this had turned. 
“Ay,” quoth he, gently, “to the beggar’s place;
For I would see the beggar in the porch.”

So they went down together to the door,
Which, when the curate opened, lo! without
The beggar sat; and he saluted him: 
“Good morrow, master.”  “Wherefore art thou here?”
The curate asked:  “it is not service time,
And none will enter now to give thee alms.” 
Then said the beggar, “I have hope at heart
That I shall go to my poor house no more.” 
“Art thou so sick that thou dost think to die?”
The curate said.  With that the beggar laughed,
And under his dim eyelids gathered tears,
And he was all a-tremble with a strange
And moving exaltation.  “Ay,” quoth he,
And set his face toward high heaven:  “I think
The blessing that I wait on must be near.”