But in my heart I sing that little song:
The angels hear it, as, a pitying throng,
They touch my burning lids with fingers bright,
Like moonbeams--pale, impalpable, and light.
And when my daily pious tasks are done,
And all my patient prayers said one by one,
God hears it. Seems it sinful in His sight
That round my slow burnt-offering of quenched will,
One quivering human sigh creeps windlike still?
That when my orisons in silence fail,
Lingers one tremulous note of human wail?
Dear lord--spouse--hero--martyr--saint! erelong
I think God will forgive my singing that poor song.

A year ago, I bade my little son
Bear on a pilgrimage a sacred load
Of alms; he cried out, fainting on the road,
'Mother, O mother, would that this were done!'
Him I reproved with tears, and said: 'Go on,
Nor feebly sink ere half thy task be o'er.'
Would not God say to me the same, and more?
I will not sing that song. Thou, dearest one,
Husband--no, _brother_--stretch thy steadfast hand
Across the void! Mine grasps it. Now I stand,
My woman-weakness nerved to strength divine.
We'll quaff life's aloe-cup as though 'twere wine,
Each to the other; journeying on apart,
Till at heaven's golden doors we two leap heart to heart.

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