(at a Cathedral Service)

     That from this bright believing band
        An outcast I should be,
     That faiths by which my comrades stand
        Seem fantasies to me,
     And mirage-mists their Shining Land,
        Is a drear destiny.

     Why thus my soul should be consigned
        To infelicity,
     Why always I must feel as blind
        To sights my brethren see,
     Why joys they've found I cannot find,
        Abides a mystery.

     Since heart of mine knows not that ease
        Which they know; since it be
     That He who breathes All's Well to these
        Breathes no All's Well to me,
     My lack might move their sympathies
        And Christian charity!

     I am like a gazer who should mark
        An inland company
     Standing upfingered, with, "Hark! hark!
        The glorious distant sea!"
     And feel, "Alas, 'tis but yon dark
        And wind-swept pine to me!"

     Yet I would bear my shortcomings
        With meet tranquillity,
     But for the charge that blessed things
        I'd liefer have unbe.

     O, doth a bird deprived of wings
        Go earth-bound wilfully!
          .     .     .     .
     Enough. As yet disquiet clings
        About us. Rest shall we.