But in the depth thou hast another home,
         For hearts less daring, or more frail.
     Thou dwellest also in the shadowy vale;
           And pilgrim-souls that roam
         With weary feet o'er hill and dale,
         Bearing the burden and the heat
             Of toilful days,
           Turn from the dusty ways
     To find thee in thy green and still retreat.
         Here is no vision wide outspread
     Before the lonely and exalted seat
     Of all-embracing knowledge.  Here, instead,
     A little garden, and a sheltered nook,
           With outlooks brief and sweet
     Across the meadows, and along the brook,—
         A little stream that little knows
     Of the great sea towards which it gladly flows,—
     A little field that bears a little wheat
     To make a portion of earth's daily bread.
         The vast cloud-armies overhead
         Are marshalled, and the wild wind blows
         Its trumpet, but thou canst not tell
     Whence the storm comes nor where it goes.

     Nor dost thou greatly care, since all is well;
                  Thy daily task is done,
                  And though a lowly one,
                  Thou gavest it of thy best,
                  And art content to rest
     In patience till its slow reward is won.
     Not far thou lookest, but thy sight is clear;
     Not much thou knowest, but thy faith is dear;
     For life is love, and love is always near.
     Here friendship lights the fire, and every heart,
     Sure of itself and sure of all the rest,
     Dares to be true, and gladly takes its part
     In open converse, bringing forth its best:
     Here is Sweet music, melting every chain
                  Of lassitude and pain:
     And here, at last, is sleep, the gift of gifts,
                  The tender nurse, who lifts
     The soul grown weary of the waking world,
     And lays it, with its