EVERYMAID

King's Daughter!

Wouldst thou be all fair,

Without — within —

Peerless and beautiful,

A very Queen?

Know then:—

Not as men build unto the Silent One,—

With clang and clamour,

Traffic of rude voices,

Clink of steel on stone,

And din of hammer;—

Not so the temple of thy grace is reared.

But,— in the inmost shrine

Must thou begin,

And build with care

A Holy Place,

A place unseen,

Each stone a prayer.

Then, having built,

Thy shrine sweep bare

Of self and sin,

And all that might demean;

And, with endeavour,

Watching ever, praying ever,

Keep it fragrant-sweet, and clean:

So, by God's grace, it be fit place,—

His Christ shall enter and shall dwell therein.

Not as in earthly fane — where chase

Of steel on stone may strive to win

Some outward grace,—

Thy temple face is chiselled from within.