⁠What doth he ask?
⁠Some worthy task,
⁠Never to run
⁠Till that be done,
⁠That never done
⁠Under the sun.
⁠Here to begin
⁠All things to win
⁠By his endeavor
⁠Forever and ever.
⁠Happy and well
⁠On this ground to dwell,
⁠This soil subdue,
⁠Plant, and renew.
⁠By might and main
⁠Health and strength gain,
⁠So to give nerve
​⁠To his slenderness;
⁠Yet some mighty pain
⁠He would sustain,
⁠So to preserve
⁠His tenderness.
⁠Not be deceived,
⁠Of suff'ring bereaved,
⁠Not lose his life
⁠By living too well,
⁠Nor escape strife
⁠In his lonely cell,
⁠And so find out heaven
⁠By not knowing hell.
⁠Strength like the rock
⁠To withstand any shock,
⁠Yet some Aaron's rod,
⁠Some smiting by God,
⁠Occasion to gain
⁠To shed human tears
⁠And to entertain
⁠Still demonic fears.
Not once for all, forever, blest,
Still to be cheered out of the west;
Not from his heart to banish all sighs;
Still be encouraged by the sunrise;
Forever to love and to love and to love,
Within him, around him, beneath him, above.
To love is to know, is to feel, is to be;
At once 't is his birth and his destiny.
⁠Having sold all,
⁠Something would get,
​⁠Furnish his stall
⁠With better yet,—
⁠For earthly pleasures
⁠Celestial pains,
⁠Heavenly losses
⁠For earthly gains.
⁠Still to begin—unheard-of sin
⁠A fallen angel—a risen man
⁠Never returns to where he began.
⁠Some childlike labor
⁠Here to perform,
⁠Some baby-house
⁠To keep out the storm,
⁠And make the sun laugh
⁠While he doth warm,
⁠And the moon cry
⁠To think of her youth,
⁠The months gone by,
⁠And wintering truth.

⁠How long to morning?
⁠Can any tell?
⁠How long since the warning
⁠On our ears fell?
⁠The bridegroom cometh
⁠Know we not well?
⁠Are we not ready,
⁠Our packet made,
⁠Our hearts steady,
⁠Last words said?
⁠Must we still eat
​⁠The bread we have spurned?
⁠Must we rekindle
⁠The faggots we've burned?
⁠Must we go out
⁠By the poor man's gate?
⁠Die by degrees,
⁠Not by new fate?
⁠Is there no road
⁠This way, my friend?
⁠Is there no road
⁠Without any end?
⁠Have you not seen
⁠In ancient times
⁠Pilgrims go by here
⁠Toward other climes,
⁠With shining faces
⁠Youthful and strong
⁠Mounting this hill
⁠With speech and with song?
⁠Oh, my good sir,
⁠I know not the ways;
⁠Little my knowledge,
⁠Though many my days.
⁠When I have slumbered,
⁠I have heard sounds
⁠As travellers passing
⁠Over my grounds.
⁠'T was a sweet music
⁠Wafted them by;
⁠I could not tell
⁠If far off or nigh.
​⁠Unless I dreamed it,
⁠This was of yore,
⁠But I never told it
⁠To mortal before;
⁠Never remembered
⁠But in my dreams
⁠What to me waking
⁠A miracle seems.
If you will give of your pulse or your grain,
We will rekindle those flames again.
Here will we tarry, still without doubt,
Till a miracle putteth that fire out.