Poetry

In stagnant gloom I toil through day

All that enchants me put away

No bird decoyed to such a breast

Could warble a note, or be at rest;

From the old fountain of delight

Falls not one drop to salve my sight.

Yet - Thou who mad'st of dust my face,

And shut me in this bitter place,

Thou also, past the world to know,

Didst hinges hand where heart may go

After day's travail - vain all words! -

Into this garden of the Lord's.