When I shake off the outer things
That, thronging, drag me fifty ways —
The busy needs, the little stings
That hum about my usual days —
I come into a secret place
And meet my true self, face to face.

Quiet removal from the press,
A breathing-room wherein the soul
Knows love and love's own tenderness,
And in a dream descries the goal;
There wholesome thoughts and sweet confer,
Like garments laid in lavender.

Anew I feel that I belong —
Alien and outcast though I be —
To the great Spirit whose far song
Makes an ineffable harmony;
And, with a rhythm in my feet,
I fare me forth my fate to greet.