Classic Poem

Sister, arise: We have no more to sing
Or say. The priest abideth as is meet
To minister. Rise up out of thy seat
Though peradventure 'tis an irksome thing
To cross again the threshold of our King
Where His doors stand against the evil street,
And let each step increase upon our feet
The dust we shook from them at entering.

Must we of very sooth go home? The air,
Whose heat outside makes mist that can be seen,
Is very cool and clear where we have been.
The priest abideth, ministering. Lo!
As he for service, why not we for prayer?
It is so bidden, sister, let us go.