Work And Contemplation


    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.


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It ain't what you don't know that gets you into trouble. It's what you know for sure that just ain't so.