68
POEMS.
Give up my smooth white stone! Hasten it forth.
My soul in bondage lies.
I must arise.
Perhaps upon the shining stone,
My own,
Even to-day the hammers ring.
The workman does not sing.
He is a lover and he has a child;
To him a gravestone is a fearful thing.
He has not smiled
Since under his strong hands the white stone came,
Though he is slow and dull,
And could not give a name
To thoughts which fill his heart too full
Of prophecy and pain.
O Workman, sing! See how the white dust flies
And glistens in the sunny air.
No grain but counts;
Some fair spot grows more fair
By it, each moment. In the skies,
My moment must be near.
Workman, there is on earth no loss, no waste.
Sing loud, and make all haste;
I must arise.
My soul in bondage lies.
I must arise.
Perhaps upon the shining stone,
My own,
Even to-day the hammers ring.
The workman does not sing.
He is a lover and he has a child;
To him a gravestone is a fearful thing.
He has not smiled
Since under his strong hands the white stone came,
Though he is slow and dull,
And could not give a name
To thoughts which fill his heart too full
Of prophecy and pain.
O Workman, sing! See how the white dust flies
And glistens in the sunny air.
No grain but counts;
Some fair spot grows more fair
By it, each moment. In the skies,
My moment must be near.
Workman, there is on earth no loss, no waste.
Sing loud, and make all haste;
I must arise.
Perhaps even now the shining stone,
My own,
Stands ready,—arch and base,
And chiselled lines, and space
For name all done: and yesterday
Some sorrowing ones stood round it silently
And looked at it through tears,
But passed it by,
My own,
Stands ready,—arch and base,
And chiselled lines, and space
For name all done: and yesterday
Some sorrowing ones stood round it silently
And looked at it through tears,
But passed it by,
