And to make idols, and to find them clay,
And to bewail that worship—therefore pray!
Her lot is on you—to be found untired,
Watching the stars out by the bed of pain,
With a pale cheek, and yet a brow inspired,
And a true heart of hope, though hope be vain.
Meekly to bear with wrong, to cheer decay,
And oh! to love through all things—therefore pray!
And take the thought of this calm vesper time,
With its low murmuring sounds and silvery light,