previous next

[118] For the warmest of hearts is frozen,
     The freest of hands is still;
And the gap in our picked and chosen
     The long years may not fill.

No duty could overtask him,
     No need his will outrun;
Or ever our lips could ask him,
     His hands the work had done.

He forgot his own soul for others,
     Himself to his neighbor lending;
He found the Lord in his suffering brothers,
     And not in the clouds descending.

So the bed was sweet to die on,
     Whence he saw the doors wide swung
Against whose bolted iron
     The strength of his life was flung.

And he saw ere his eye was darkened
     The sheaves of the harvest-bringing,
And knew while his ear yet hearkened
     The voice of the reapers singing.

Ah, well! The world is discreet;
     There are plenty to pause and wait;
But here was a man who set his feet
     Sometimes in advance of fate;

Plucked off the old bark when the inner
     Was slow to renew it,
And put to the Lord's work the sinner
     “When saints failed to do it.

Creative Commons License
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 United States License.

An XML version of this text is available for download, with the additional restriction that you offer Perseus any modifications you make. Perseus provides credit for all accepted changes, storing new additions in a versioning system.

hide Places (automatically extracted)

View a map of the most frequently mentioned places in this document.

Download Pleiades ancient places geospacial dataset for this text.

hide Display Preferences
Greek Display:
Arabic Display:
View by Default:
Browse Bar: