The Woman Singeth At Her Spinning-Wheel A Pleasant Chant, Ballad Or Barcarole; She Thinketh Of Her Song, Upon The Whole, Far More Than Of Her Flax; And Yet The Reel Is Full, And Artfully Her Fingers Feel With Quick Adjustment, Provident Control, The Lines, Too Subtly Twisted To Unroll Out To A Perfect Thread. I Hence Appeal To The Dear Christian Church, That We May Do Our Father'S Business In These Temples Mirk, Thus Swift And Steadfast, Thus Intent And Strong; While Thus, Apart From Toil, Our Souls Pursue Some High Calm Spheric Tune, And Prove Our Work The Better For The Sweetness Of Our Song.