Labor.Who find my heart and hands their work to do; That labor done still multiplies forever, And each swift hour and moment claims its due,. I pity him who sits him down repining, Bound in his idleness__a silken thong; He hates the sun and wearies of its shining; His moments creep__for empty days are long. My days are full, ! have no far off "mission;" My work is near; 'tis only mine to stand Accepting tasks that spring from my condition__ Doing, as best I may, the work at hand. It may be small: yet, drop by drop is added to make the gentle flow, the steady stream; The smallest needle, if 'tis often threaded By patient hand, may sew the longest seam. The finest strands may twist into a cable; Small stones be piled till looms a pyramid, Slow, patient thought may break the crust of fable, Beneath which golden mines of truth be hid. I cannot always see my cable growing; Nor always see my pile of stones increase; Yet, while I toil__ the still years swiftly going__ This fruit of labor bears; it bringeth peace. I cannot always see my cable growing;
__Ellen P. Allerton. |
Walls of Corn and Other Poems
by Ellen P. Allerton
Collected and Published by Eva Ryan
(Hiawatha: The Harrington Printing Co. 1894)
Page 204-205
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