I like the story of that monk who knelt
In prayer devout, and lest some thought of sin
Should mar its grace, dared not his work begin
Till in the silence of his heart he felt
Thought grow divine, and earthly longings melt
Beneath God's touch, and o'er the Babel din
Heard the clear whisper of the Christ within.
What wonder, when such inspiration dwelt
In his calm bosom, that he dared not rise,
But day by day, with meek and lowly heart,
Painted upon his bended knees, and wise,
Deemed not the work his own, but his the part
To seize what God revealed into his eyes
And bid the panel grow with the holy art.
—
