OVERTASKED.

It was a weary hour, I looked in the lily-bell. How holy is the flower! It leaned like an angel against the light; "O soul!" it said, sighing, "be white, be white!"

I stretched my arms for rest, I turned to the evening cloud— A vision how fair, how blest! "Low heart," it called, softly, "arise and fly. It were yours to reach levels as high as I."

I stooped to the hoary wave That wept on the darkening shore. It sobbed to me: "Oh, be brave! Whatever you do, or dare, or will, Like me to go striving, unresting still."