As some rare perfume in a vase of clay
Pervades it with a fragrance not its own,
So when Thou dwellest in a mortal soul,
All heaven's own sweetness seems around it
The soul alone, like a neglected harp,
Grows out of tune, and needs the hand Divine;
Dwell Thou within it, tune and touch its chords,
Till every note and string shall answer Thine.
Harriet Beecher Stowe.