Volume 18 / Part 1 — RELEASED.

A little low-ceiled room. Four walls Whose blank shut out all else of life, And crowded close within their bound A world of pain, and toil, and strife. Her world. Scarce furthermore she knew Of God's great globe, that wondrously Outrolls a glory of green earth, And frames it with the restless sea. Four closer walls of common pine: And therein lieth, cold and still, The weary flesh that long hath borne Its patient mystery of ill. Regardless now of work to do; No queen more careless in her state; Hands crossed in their unbroken calm; For other hands the work may wait. Put by her implements of toil; Put by each coarse, intrusive sign; She made a Sabbath when she died, And round her breathes a Rest Divine. Put by, at last, beneath the lid, The exempted hands, the tranquil face; Uplift her in her dreamless sleep, And bear her gently from the place. Oft she hath gazed, with wistful eyes, Out from that threshold on the night; The narrow bourn she crosseth now; She standeth in the Eternal Light. Oft she hath pressed, with aching feet, Those broken steps that reach the door; Henceforth with angels she shall tread Heaven's golden stair forevermore!