While worlds revolve in courses new.
Her fiery zeal, her quick emprise,
Could never brook such rest to hold!
That grave but hides her worn-out dress,—
One of God’s sure-winged messengers
I see her, on swift errand sped,
Glad of the task which strong souls ask,
Earth’s sharpest pain grown littleness
In the new tide of life made hers,
Smiling that we should call her dead!