In Any House

by Amy Carmichael

Said one whose yoke
Was that of common folk,
Would that I were like Saint Caecilia,
And could invent some goodly instrument
Passing all yet contrived to worship Thee,
And send a love-song singing over land and sea.

But when I seem
Almost to touch my dream,
I hear a call, persistent though small,
The which if I ignore, clamours about my door
And bids me run to meet some human need.
Meanwhile my dream drifts off like down of thistle seed.
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A sound of gentle stillness stirred and said,
My child, be comforted,
Dear is the offering of melody,
But dearer far, love's lowliest ministry.