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A WOMAN'S PRAISE
Four-and-twenty kings to come
Up the never-vacant stair,—
Four-and-twenty dead go down;
Follow, sacred song and prayer.
Wind again, wind again,—
Warden, why delaying there?
To his interrupted dream
Comes the long-entreated day.
What are lesser words to him?
Sweet pursuing voices say,—
"Warden, wind, wind again,
Up the ever-golden way."
Other hands will wind the clock
While the frequent years go on,
Never noting need or name
Nor the rapture of the dawn.
Wind again, wind again,
Ere the given year be gone.
A WOMAN'S PRAISE
Sweeter than a bird's song
When we look for snow,—
Sweeter than a brook's song
When the brook is low,—
Is her voice.
