What doth he ask? Some worthy task, Never to run Till that be done, That never done Under the sun. Here to begin All things to win By his endeavor Forever and ever. Happy and well On this ground to dwell, This soil subdue, Plant, and renew. By might and main Health and strength gain, So to give nerve To his slenderness; Yet some mighty pain He would sustain, So to preserve His tenderness. Not be deceived, Of suff'ring bereaved, Not lose his life By living too well, Nor escape strife In his lonely cell, And so find out heaven By not knowing hell. Strength like the rock To withstand any shock, Yet some Aaron's rod, Some smiting by God, Occasion to gain To shed human tears And to entertain Still demonic fears. Not once for all, forever, blest, Still to be cheered out of the west; Not from his heart to banish all sighs; Still be encouraged by the sunrise; Forever to love and to love and to love, Within him, around him, beneath him, above. To love is to know, is to feel, is to be; At once 'tis his birth and his destiny. Having sold all, Something would get, Furnish his stall With better yet,— For earthly pleasures Celestial pains, Heavenly losses For earthly gains. Still to begin—unheard-of sin A fallen angel—a risen man Never returns to where he began. Some childlike labor Here to perform, Some baby-house To keep out the storm, And make the sun laugh While he doth warm, And the moon cry To think of her youth, The months gone by, And wintering truth.

How long to morning? Can any tell? How long since the warning On our ears fell? The bridegroom cometh Know we not well? Are we not ready, Our packet made, Our hearts steady, Last words said? Must we still eat The bread we have spurned? Must we rekindle The faggots we've burned? Must we go out By the poor man's gate? Die by degrees, Not by new fate? Is there no road This way, my friend? Is there no road Without any end? Have you not seen In ancient times Pilgrims go by here Toward other climes, With shining faces Youthful and strong Mounting this hill With speech and with song? Oh, my good sir, I know not the ways; Little my knowledge, Though many my days. When I have slumbered, I have heard sounds As travellers passing Over my grounds. 'Twas a sweet music Wafted them by; I could not tell If far off or nigh. Unless I dreamed it, This was of yore, But I never told it To mortal before; Never remembered But in my dreams What to me waking A miracle seems. If you will give of your pulse or your grain, We will rekindle those flames again. Here will we tarry, still without doubt, Till a miracle putteth that fire out.