In stagnant gloom I toil through day
 All that enchants me put away
 No bird decoyed to such a breast
 Could warble a note, or be at rest;
 From the old fountain of delight
 Falls not one drop to salve my sight.

 Yet - Thou who mad'st of dust my face,
 And shut me in this bitter place,
 Thou also, past the world to know,
 Didst hinges hand where heart may go
 After day's travail - vain all words! -
 Into this garden of the Lord's.