‘ Mid pine woods’ whisper and the hum of bees
I heard a voice that was not bee nor wood:
“Here, in the city, Gold has trampled Good.
Come thou, do battle till this strife shall cease!”
I left the mill, the meadows and the trees,
And came to do the little best I could
For these, God's poor; and, oh, my God, I would
I had a thousand lives to give for these!
What can one hand do‘ gainst a world of wrong?
Yet, when the voice said, “Come!” how could I stay?
The foe is mighty, and the battle long
( And love is sweet, and there are flowers in May ),
And Good seems weak, and Gold is very strong;
But, while these fight, I dare not turn away.