  IT is not much that I can do. My hands are weak. The lines they draw seem never true; The works I speak Are not the ones I long to say,— I speak not prayers I long to pray. It is no coward spirit, no— I try to learn How others bravely strive and go Rewards to earn, And yet success is never mine— I labor on a false design. They are not much, these little things That form my task, Yet constant seeking never brings What I would ask, And of what use is life to one Who never knew a victory won? But this one thing I know, that He Who guides the stars Will look in charity on me And see the scars Which show that I have tried to trace A path that weeds could not efface. |
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