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Who calleth thee, Heart? World's Strife,

With a golden heft to his knife:

World's Mirth, with a finger fine

That draws on a board in wine,

Her blood-red plans of life:

World's Gain, with a brow knit down:

World's Fame, with a laurel crown,

Which rustles most as the leaves turn brown—

Heart, wilt thou go?

—"No, no!

Calm hearts are wiser so."

Hast heard that Proserpina

(Once fooling) was snatched away,

To partake the dark king's seat,—

And that the tears ran fast on her feet,

To think how the sun shone yesterday?

With her ankles sunken in asphodel,

She wept for the roses of earth, which fell

From her lap, when the wild car drave to hell.

Heart, wilt thou go?

—"No, no!

Wise hearts are warmer so."

And what is this place not seen,

Where Hearts may hide serene?—

Tis a fair still house well-kept,

Which humble thoughts have swept,

And holy prayers made clean.