Classic Poem

Welcome, life's toil! I thank the gracious Giver
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, I 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.