WHITEWASHED or panelled, filled with books, with light,

With flowers, with trifles sacred to the heart,

And work so pure and sweet that morning-dew

Might settle there and feel itself at home

As though 'mid garden fragrance; while the carol

Of birds streams through the window joyously,

Mistaking that abode of peace and love

For their own woodland haunts! And in that room

A woman's dainty hands ever at work,

A woman's loving heart ever awake

For others' happiness, a woman's thought

Alive in tender memories that embalm

The past in mute forgiveness. Enter then

As 'twere a sanctuary, lay aside

Thy load of care, and yield thy weary soul

To the deep sense of comfort reigning there.

Not many words—nay, not a single word—

Need tremble through the stillness, not a sigh

With untoward avowal break the peace

That folds thee to its heart and asks no question.

Such perfect peace pervades a room like this,

'Twould seem the raging storm, the roaring sea,

Might lay themselves to rest upon its threshold.

The ghosts that haunt it come in guise of angels,

With rosy finger-tips laid on their lips,

To hush our voices to the whispered tones

Of children's prayers. Enter, thou weary wanderer,

Enter! and have no fear, for pain and anguish

Have long been wept away, and have but left

Their precious perfume and the healing balm

Of self-forgetfulness to comfort thee!