WHOSE TEMPLE YE ARE.
BY ISABELLA HOWE FISK.
In the quarry of its earthly life,
Works the soul.
Though it suffer toil and strife,
Thy control
Canst hew out the rough material
For a master-builder’s plan;
And the soul shall rise ethereal
From the structure of the man.
In beneath the granite arches
Swings the spirit’s censer fair,
And amid the ritual arches
Incense rises through the air.
