If void of man’s proud gift, a living soul,
At least thou knowest naught of rebel will,
Of petty passions, pettier aims, that toll
The knell of love and praise his days should fill.
Here rest we, while thine anthems heavenward roll,
And list the voice of God, so sweet, so still.
II.
Ay, rest, poor human soul, but not for long:
That searching voice hath bid thee look below,
Where freshening streams by dusty roadsides flow,