Morality
We
cannot
kindle
when
we
will
The
fire
which
in
the
heart
resides;
The
spirit
bloweth
and
is
still,
In
mystery
our
soul
abides.
But
tasks
in
hours
of
insight
will'd
Can
be
through
hours
of
gloom
fulfill'd.
With
aching
hands
and
bleeding
feet
We
dig
and
heap,
lay
stone
on
stone;
We
bear
the
burden
and
the
heat
Of
the
long
day,
and
wish
'twere
done.
Not
till
the
hours
of
light
return,
All
we
have
built
do
we
discern.
Then,
when
the
clouds
are
off
the
soul,
When
thou
dost
bask
in
Nature's
eye,
Ask,
how
she
view'd
thy
self-control,
Thy
struggling,
task'd
morality—
Nature,
whose
free,
light,
cheerful
air,
Oft
made
thee,
in
thy
gloom,
despair.
And
she,
whose
censure
thou
dost
dread,
Whose
eye
thou
wast
afraid
to
seek,
See,
on
her
face
a
glow
is
spread,
A
strong
emotion
on
her
cheek!
"Ah,
child!"
she
cries,
"that
strife
divine,
Whence
was
it,
for
it
is
not
mine?
"There
is
no
effort
on
my
brow—
I
do
not
strive,
I
do
not
weep;
I
rush
with
the
swift
spheres
and
glow
In
joy,
and
when
I
will,
I
sleep.
Yet
that
severe,
that
earnest
air,
I
saw,
I
felt
it
once—but
where?
"I
knew
not
yet
the
gauge
of
time,
Nor
wore
the
manacles
of
space;
I
felt
it
in
some
other
clime,
I
saw
it
in
some
other
place.
'Twas
when
the
heavenly
house
I
trod,
And
lay
upon
the
breast
of
God."
