Classic Poem

THE WISE MAIDEN.

Master .

P RITHEE , why for ever sweeping,
Maiden, this poor room?
Ever stirring, never sleeping,
Seems thy restless broom.
Prithee, why for ever praying,
Those pure lips within?
Art, I fear, too dearly paying
For but fancied sin.

M AID .

Though I'm ever sweeping, master,
Did my zeal grow slack,
Than it disappeareth faster
Would the dust come back;
And my praying is but sweeping
This poor sinful breast,
Into which fresh dust is creeping,
When from prayer I rest.

Master .

Never does my eye remember,
Maiden, to have seen,
When thy care hath swept my chamber,
Speck of dust within.

M AID .

May the angel to my sweeping
Praise like this impart,
Who, his master's mansions keeping,
Comes to search my heart.