 | The Prisoner of Love |  |
337
October 22 TOIL
“Work . . . while it is day: the night cometh, when no man
can work.”—St. John ix. 4.
O the honest pride of toiling
Always to some worthy end,
With no jewels but the soiling
Left to witness what we spend.
O the joy that hath no fellow,
In the planting of the blade;
Till it turns from green to yellow,
Through the sunshine and the shade.
Always to some worthy end,
With no jewels but the soiling
Left to witness what we spend.
O the joy that hath no fellow,
In the planting of the blade;
Till it turns from green to yellow,
Through the sunshine and the shade.
O if we wrought some addition
To men's living staff or stock,
Though our eyes see no fruition
Yet in one small golden shock.
O the trust that we, when spilling
Often idle work or waste,
There are duly thus fulfilling
Nature's purpose even in haste.
To men's living staff or stock,
Though our eyes see no fruition
Yet in one small golden shock.
O the trust that we, when spilling
Often idle work or waste,
There are duly thus fulfilling
Nature's purpose even in haste.
O the strength, that we are striving
Still with God Himself for good,
And the world by us is thriving,
On the hopes it first withstood.
O the bliss that, with endurance
And despite the long delay,
Not one seed of love's assurance
Ever can be thrown away!
Still with God Himself for good,
And the world by us is thriving,
On the hopes it first withstood.
O the bliss that, with endurance
And despite the long delay,
Not one seed of love's assurance
Ever can be thrown away!
| The Prisoner of Love | |