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. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...UPON HIS SPANIEL [SPANIELL] TRACIE by ROBERT HERRICK WHO WALKS WITH BEAUTY by DAVID MORTON A BOY'S MOTHER by JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY THE HOUSE OF LIFE: 54. LOVE'S FATALITY by DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI EXTEMPORE EFFUSION UPON THE DEATH OF JAMES HOGG by WILLIAM WORDSWORTH |