Such A Blush In The Midst Of

There Is A Silence Where Hath Been No Sound, There Is A Silence Where No Sound May Be,- In The Cold Grave, Under The Deep, Deep Sea, Or In The Wide Desert Where No Life Is Found.

With Fingers Weary And Worn, With Eyelids Heavy And Red, A Woman Sat In Unwomanly Rags, Plying Her Needle And Thread.

No Blessed Leisure For Love Or Hope, But Only Time For Grief.

Spontaneously To God Should Turn The Soul, Like The Magnetic Needle To The Pole; But What Were That Intrinsic Virtue Worth, Suppose Some Fellow, With More Zeal Than Knowledge, Fresh From St. Andrew's College, Should Nail The Conscious Needle To The North?

Father Of Rosy Day, No More Thy Clouds Of Incense Rise; But Waking Flow'rs, At Morning Hours, Give Out Their Sweets To Meet Thee In The Skies.