There are men, there are women who toil
At the mill or the mart or the soil,
Who wearily drudge day by day
Till the soul of them seems to decay;
Only seems,—for within, after all,
There’s a something that waits for its call.
X.
And if even the call never come
In this world of the deaf and the dumb,
When the Great Trumpet music shall fall
On the ears of the quick and the dead,
They shall burst from their clay
And hasten away
To their place in that host of which God is the Head.
ELOISE.
I.
I’ll call thee Elöise. Such eyes as thine
With fatal beauty marred
The peace of Abelard,
And dimmed with human love the light divine
That lingers near Religion’s holy shrine!
II.
O pitiless eyes, you burn unto my soul,
Each one a living coal
From off Love’s altar! Fall, O silken lashes,
And shade me, like a screen, from their control,
Ere all my warm delight be turned to ashes!