For gain or glory lands and seas
      Endlessly ranging,
    Safety and years and health and ease
      Freely exchanging;
    Chiselling Humanity to dust
      Of glittering riches,
    God’s blood-veined marble to a bust
      For Fame’s cold niches: 

    Desire’s loose reins, and steed that stains
      The rider’s raiment;
    Sorrow and sacrifice and pains
      For worthless payment:—­
    When, ever as I moved, I saw
      The world’s contagion,
    Then turned, O Love! to thy sweet law
      And compensation,—­

    Well might red shame my cheek consume! 
      O service slighted! 
    O Bride of Paradise, to whom
      I long was plighted! 
    Do I with burning lips profess
      To serve thee wholly,
    Yet labor less for blessedness
      Than fools for folly?

    The wary worldling spread his toils
      Whilst I was sleeping;
    The wakeful miser locked his spoils,
      Keen vigils keeping: 
    I loosed the latches of my soul
      To pleading Pleasure,
    Who stayed one little hour, and stole
      My heavenly treasure.

    A friend for friend’s sake will endure
      Sharp provocations;
    And knaves are cunning to secure,
      By cringing patience,
    And smiles upon a smarting cheek,
      Some dear advantage,—­
    Swathing their grievances in meek
      Submission’s bandage.

    Yet for thy sake I will not take
      One drop of trial,
    But raise rebellious hands to break
      The bitter vial. 
    At hardship’s surly-visaged churl
      My spirit sallies;
    And melts, O Peace! thy priceless pearl
      In passion’s chalice.

    Yet never quite, in darkest night,
      Was I forsaken: 
    Down trickles still some starry rill
      My heart to waken. 
    O Love Divine! could I resign
      This changeful spirit
    To walk thy ways, what wealth of grace
      Might I inherit!

    If one poor flower of thanks to thee
      Be truly given,
    All night thou snowest down to me
      Lilies of heaven! 
    One task of human love fulfilled,
      Thy glimpses tender
    My days of lonely labor gild
      With gleams of splendor!

    One prayer,—­“Thy will, not mine!”—­and bright,
      O’er all my being,
    Breaks blissful light, that gives to sight
      A subtler seeing;
    Straightway mine ear is tuned to hear
      Ethereal numbers,
    Whose secret symphonies insphere
      The dull earth’s slumbers.

    “Thy will!”—­and I am armed to meet
      Misfortune’s volleys;
    For every sorrow I have sweet,
      Oh, sweetest solace! 
    “Thy will!”—­no more I hunger sore,
      For angels feed me;
    Henceforth for days, by peaceful ways,
      They gently lead me.