Marjorie L. C. Pickthall (1883–1922)

O LITTLE hearts, beat home, beat home,

Here is no place to rest.

Night darkens on the falling foam

And on the fading west.

O little wings, beat home, beat home.

Love may no longer roam.

O, Love has touched the fields of wheat

And Love has crowned the corn,

And we must follow Love’s white feet

Through all the ways of morn.

Through all the silver roads of air

We pass and have no care.

The silver roads of Love are wide,

O winds that turn, O stars that guide,

Sweet are the ways that Love hath trod

Through the clear skies that reach to God.

But in the cliff-grass Love builds deep

A place where wandering wings may sleep.