I, from the meadows of Song,
Fresh from the clover dales,
Am here 'mid the rushing throng,
Regretting the fragrant vales.

For there the spirit, Repose,
Dwells in the shadowy pass;
Beauty is there with her rose, —
Leisure, a-dream in the grass.

But yet, 'tis a heartening sight,
It was wrong to repine,
The rush has a touch of delight,
And the fervor is fine!

Oh, the Doers of Things are they, —
No shirkers among them all,
For Duty is calling to-day,
And they surge to the call!