In quiet, holy light she stands,
But not for her the folded hands.
She scorns the life that moves apart
In selfish solitude of heart,
But knits herself to tasks that bend
Their footsteps to some noble end.
Here is a life of deeds from which
She keeps the hollow fame of speech!
She cares not for the praise or blame
That whirls, like wind, around a name.
She holds no creed; within her breast
The spirit of Christ hath perfect rest;
And thus she sees with fearless sight
The shadow lying by the light,
Nor turns away, for in her eyes
Dwells the blue calm of summer skies,
Whose soft and tender glories fall,
Not over one, but over all.