IN ANY HOUSE
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 so 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.
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.
Amy Carmichael, Towards Jerusalem, p. 26 (emphasis mine)