It Is A Comely Fashion To Be

How Gently Rock Yon Poplars High Against The Reach Of Primrose Sky With Heaven's Pale Candles Stored.

The Red Sahara In An Angry Glow, / With Amber Fogs, Across Its Hollows Trailed / Long Strings Of Camels, Gloomy-eyed And Slow.

I Am Glad To Think I Am Not Bound To Make The World Go Right, But Only To Discover And To Do, With Cheerful Heart, The Work That God Appoints.

Yet There Are Some Resting-places, / Life's Untroubled Interludes; / Times When Neither Past Nor Future / On The Soul's Deep Calm Intrudes.

For Hearts Where Wakened Love Doth Lurk, How Fine, How Blest A Thing Is Work! For Work Does Good When Reasons Fail.