  Suggested by Millet’s painting with this title Far through the lilac sky the Angelus bell Brings back again the hail of Gabriel. Its refluent, three-fold, immemorial rhyme Follows the fading sun, from clime to clime— Ripples and lives a moment in the heart, Wherever the dark hours come and the bright depart. From land to fading land, the whole world round, It airily runs, a rosary of sound— Bursts silverly on sainted Palestine; Lives for a moment on the Apennine; Flings on the fields of France a far refrain; Sends a sweet trouble on the bells of Spain; Touches Manhattan; hurries on to be A murmur on Saint Francis by the sea. But dreamily here the hours of evening go, With tented haycocks in the rosy glow— Sweet-smelling heaps that Abel rested on. And two have heard the summons on the air, And turned from labor, the embodied prayer; Bowed with the fine humility of trees, Of bended barley in the quiet breeze; As faithful as the never-failing Earth That gives us bread of rest and bread of mirth; As patient as the rocks that have been still Since put into their places on the hill; In league with Earth and all her quiet things, Whose lives are wrapped in shade and whisperings; In league with Earth and all the things that live To give their toil for others and forgive. Pausing to let the hush of evening pass Across the soul, as shadow over grass, They cease their day-long sacrament of toil, That living prayer, the tilling of the soil! And richer are their two-fold worshippings For each true deed is worship: it is prayer, And carries its own answer unaware. Yes, they whose feet upon good errands run Are friends of God, with Michael of the sun; Yes, each accomplished service of the day Paves for the feet of God a lordlier way. The souls that love and labor through all wrong, They clasp His hand and make the circle strong; They lay the deep foundation, stone by stone, And build into Eternity God’s throne! He is more pleased by some sweet human use Than by the learnÈd book of the recluse; Sweeter are comrade kindnesses to Him Than the high harpings of the Seraphim; More than white incense circling to the dome Is a field well furrowed or a nail sent home. More than the hallelujahs of the choirs Is a loaf well kneaded or a room swept clean With light-heart love that finds no labor mean.
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