It was a weary hour,
I looked in the lily-bell.
How holy is the flower!
It leaned like an angel against the light;
'O soul!' it said, sighing, 'be white, be white!'
I stretched my arms for rest,
I turned to the evening cloud-
A vision how fair, how blest!
'Low heart,' it called, softly, 'arise and fly.
It were yours to reach levels as high as I.'
I stooped to the hoary wave
That wept on the darkening shore.
It sobbed to me: 'Oh, be brave!
Whatever you do, or dare, or will,
Like me to go striving, unresting still.'