On damask white. Anon, our chairs

Pushed back, we knelt for morning prayers,

And, planning new adventures, heard

The voice devout but not the word.

No lingering then;—a hundred things,

New schemes, imagined happenings,

Called us away to wood and field—

For any hour of life might yield

Some wonder, some unthought of bliss,

Some miracle we dared not miss.

And gladness, hidden in the springs

Of purpose at the heart of things,{5}

{5}

Showed us a world where work was play,

And common labours of the day

Sweet service; but we knew not then

The burdens men have laid on men,—

Nay, only those perennial tasks

Which earth of all her children asks

For fruitfulness; and glad were we

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