OVERTASKED.

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.”