“It is not great,” quoth one, “the work achieved. 
We do, and we delight to do, our best: 
But that is little; for, my dear,” quoth she,
“This tower and town have been infested long
With angels.”—­“Ay,” the other made reply,
“I had a little evil-one, of late,
That I picked up as it was crawling out
O’ the pit, and took and cherished in my breast. 
It would divine for me, and oft would moan,
‘Pray thee, no churches,’ and it spake of this. 
But I was harried once,—­thou know’st by whom,—­
And fled in here; and, when he followed me,
I crouching by this pillar, he let down
His hand,—­being all too proud to send his eyes
In its wake,—­and, plucking forth my tender imp,
Flung it behind him.  It went yelping forth;
And, as for me, I never saw it more. 
Much is against us,—­very much:  the times
Are hard.”  She paused:  her fellow took the word,
Plaining on such as preach and them that plead. 
“Even such as haunt the yawning mouths of hell,”
Quoth she, “and pluck them back that run thereto.” 
Then, like a sudden blow, there fell on him
The utterance of his name.  “There is no soul
That I loathe more, and oftener curse.  Woe’s me,
That cursing should be vain!  Ay, he will go
Gather the sucking children, that are yet
Too young for us, and watch and shelter them. 
Till the strong Angels—­pitiless and stern,
But to them loving ever—­sweep them in,
By armsful, to the unapproachable fold.

“We strew his path with gold:  it will not lie. 
‘Deal softly with him,’ was the master’s word. 
We brought him all delights:  his angel came
And stood between them and his eyes.  They spend
Much pains upon him,—­keep him poor and low
And unbeloved; and thus he gives his mind
To fill the fateful, the impregnable
Child-fold, and sow on earth the seed of stars.

“Oh! hard is serving against love,—­the love
Of the Unspeakable; for if we soil
The souls He openeth out a washing-place;
And if we grudge, and snatch away the bread,
Then will He save by poverty, and gain
By early giving up of blameless life;
And if we shed out gold, He even will save
In spite of gold,—­of twice-refined gold.”

With that the curate set his daunted eyes
To look upon the shadows of the fiends. 
He was made sure they could not see the child
That nestled in his arms; he also knew
They were unconscious that his mortal ears
Had new intelligence, which gave their speech
Possible entrance through his garb of clay.

He was afraid, yet awful gladness reached
His soul:  the testimony of the lost
Upbraided him; but while he trembled yet,
The heavenly child had lifted up its head
And left his arms, and on the marble floor
Stood beckoning.