I
TO all that's old and lovely and remote
From all the shock of facts we would were not,
Where pain and care and toil are clean forgotten, —
Ay, all's forgot, —

Where we might fashion to our heart's desire
A world where all is happy, all is sweet,
Thither, in hours when all my heart is weary,
Thither would I retreat.

Where souls may find the calm they still must crave.
Nor further toil, nor further strive nor stray.
Where hearts may find repose from sin and sorrow,
For such a land we pray.
II
But yet no answer from the leaden sky
Comes down, nor voice, nor any that regard,
And so we struggle on, unstrength'd and weary,
Although the way is hard,

And strengthen'd so by pain and need's sharp spur
We tread the roughen'd path that all have trod.
Until we fall at length, content and fainting.
Before the throne of God.