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...THE COMING OF WISDOM WITH TIME by WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS SECRECY PROTESTED by THOMAS CAREW TO MARY UNWIN by WILLIAM COWPER THE VALSE by PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR THE DEFINITION OF LOVE by ANDREW MARVELL UPON THE IMAGE OF DEATH by ROBERT SOUTHWELL |