Shape the strong and awful Spirit, Laid his ancient hand on you. He waste chaos doth inherit; He can alter and subdue. Verily, he doth lift up Matter, like a sacred cup. Into deep substance he reached, and lo Where ye were not, ye were; and so Out of useless nothing, ye Groaned and laughed and came to be. And I use you, as I can, Wonderful uses, made for man, Iron pot and brazen pan. V What are ye? I know not; Nor what I really do When I move and govern you. There is no small work unto God. He requires of us greatness; Of his least creature A high angelic nature, Stature superb and bright completeness. He sets to us no humble duty. Each act that he would have us do Is haloed round with strangest beauty. Terrific deeds and cosmic tasks Of his plainest child he asks. When I polish the brazen pan I hear a creature laugh afar In the gardens of a star, And from his burning presence run Flaming wheels of many a sun. Whoever makes a thing more bright, He is an angel of all light. When I cleanse this earthen floor My spirit leaps to see Bright garments trailing over it. Wonderful lustres cover it, A cleanness made by me. Purger of all men's thoughts and ways, With labor do I sound Thy praise, My work is done for Thee. Whoever makes a thing more bright, He is an angel of all light. Therefore let me spread abroad The beautiful cleanness of my God. VI One time in the cool of dawn Angels came and worked with me. The air was soft with many a wing. They laughed amid my solitude And cast bright looks on everything. Sweetly of me did they ask That they might do my common task. And all were beautiful -- but one With garments whiter than the sun Had such a face Of deep, remembered grace, That when I saw I cried -- "Thou art The great Blood-Brother of my heart. Where have I seen thee?" -- And he said, "When we are dancing 'round God's throne, How often thou art there. Beauties from thy hands have flown Like white doves wheeling in mid-air. Nay -- thy soul remembers not? Work on, and cleanse thy iron pot." VII What are we? I know not. A Saint's Hours. [Sarah N. Cleghorn] In the still cold before the sun (Her Matins) Her brothers and her sisters small She woke, and washed and dressed each one. And through the morning hours all (Prime) Singing above her broom she stood And swept the house from hall to hall. Then out she ran with tidings good (Tierce) Across the field and down the lane, To share them with the neighborhood. Four miles she walked, and home again, (Sexts) To sit through half the afternoon And hear a feeble crone complain. But when she saw the frosty moon (Nones) And lakes of shadow on the hill, Her maiden dreams grew bright as noon.