VII.
Beating heart and burning brow, ye are very patient now—
Toll slowly.
And the children might be bold to pluck the kingcups from your mould
Ere a month had let them grow.
VIII.
And you let the goldfinch sing in the alder near in spring—
Toll slowly.
Let her build her nest and sit all the three weeks out on it,
Murmuring not at anything.
IX.
In your patience ye are strong, cold and heat ye take not wrong—
Toll slowly.
When the trumpet of the angel blows eternity's evangel,
Time will seem to you not long.
X.
Oh, the little birds sang east, and the little birds sang west—
Toll slowly.
And I said in underbreath,—All our life is mixed with death,
And who knoweth which is best?
XI.
Oh, the little birds sang east, and the little birds sang west—
Toll slowly.
And I smiled to think God's greatness flowed around our incompleteness,—
Round our restlessness, His rest.