I'm glad that I have found
A workshop in the sky,
Where through the daily round
I watch the clouds go by,
Where never laugh nor cry
Beats up from the sullen ground.

It might have been below,
At the base of some blank wall,
Where the black man-eddies flow
And the dust waves rise and fall;
Where the sun comes not at all,
Nor the winds of heaven blow.

Or it might have been placed higher,
With a dim restricted sweep,
Where six days men aspire
To a seventh day of sleep;
Or sweating vigils keep
In the gloom of some tall spire.

But it's up where sea-gulls float,
And faces all the west;
As far away as a boat,
And as near at hand as a nest,
And Peace bides there a guest
Of solitudes remote.