But here a voice, I know not whence,
Thrills clearly through my inward sense,
Saying:  ’See where she sits at home
While thou in search of her dost roam! 
All summer long her ancient wheel
  Whirls humming by the open door,
Or, when the hickory’s social zeal
  Sets the wide chimney in a roar, 100
Close-nestled by the tinkling hearth,
It modulates the household mirth
With that sweet serious undertone
Of duty, music all her own;
Still as of old she sits and spins
Our hopes, our sorrows, and our sins;
With equal care she twines the fates
Of cottages and mighty states;
She spins the earth, the air, the sea,
The maiden’s unschooled fancy free, 110
The boy’s first love, the man’s first grief,
The budding and the fall o’ the leaf;
The piping west-wind’s snowy care
For her their cloudy fleeces spare,
Or from the thorns of evil times
She can glean wool to twist her rhymes;
Morning and noon and eve supply
To her their fairest tints for dye,
But ever through her twirling thread
There spires one line of warmest red, 120
Tinged from the homestead’s genial heart,
The stamp and warrant of her art;
With this Time’s sickle she outwears,
And blunts the Sisters’ baffled shears.

’Harass her not:  thy heat and stir
But greater coyness breed in her;
Yet thou mayst find, ere Age’s frost,
Thy long apprenticeship not lost,
Learning at last that Stygian Fate
Unbends to him that knows to wait. 130
The Muse is womanish, nor deigns
Her love to him that pules and plains;
With proud, averted face she stands
To him that wooes with empty hands. 
Make thyself free of Manhood’s guild;
Pull down thy barns and greater build;
The wood, the mountain, and the plain
Wave breast-deep with the poet’s grain;
Pluck thou the sunset’s fruit of gold,
Glean from the heavens and ocean old; 140
From fireside lone and trampling street
Let thy life garner daily wheat;
The epic of a man rehearse,
Be something better than thy verse;
Make thyself rich, and then the Muse
Shall court thy precious interviews,
Shall take thy head upon her knee,
And such enchantment lilt to thee,
That thou shalt hear the life-blood flow
From farthest stars to grass-blades low, 150
And find the Listener’s science still
Transcends the Singer’s deepest skill!’

THE CATHEDRAL

* * * * *

  To

  MR. JAMES T. FIELDS

  MY DEAR FIELDS: 

Dr. Johnson’s sturdy self-respect led him to invent the Bookseller as a substitute for the Patron.  My relations with you have enabled me to discover how pleasantly the Friend may replace the Bookseller.  Let me record my sense of many thoughtful services by associating your name with a poem which owes its appearance in this form to your partiality.

  Cordially yours,