And men's souls shot up out of reach
Of fear or lust or thwarting shame—
That thy faith over souls should pass
As sea-winds burning the young grass?
It was for this, that prayers like these
Should spend themselves about thy feet.
And with hard overlaboured knees
Kneeling, these slaves of men should beat
Bosoms too lean to suckle sons,
And fruitless as their orisons?