A glow-worm in the grass at night shed forth

Its feeble light, but darkness deepened fast;

The wee thing did its uttermost to banish night,

And that, forsooth, was truest toil, indeed,

Success in God's clear sight, though in man's view,

Obscured by things of sense, 'twas but defeat.

A fire-fly flashed its fitful light, while soft

The evening shadows fell, and clouds hid stars,

And veiled in black the gentle moon's bright face;

As if the night, like one afraid, would haste

To flee when lightning flashed from those small wings,

With courage high the insect gave its light,

Though all alone with none to proffer aid—

Nor sun, nor moon, nor star a single beam.

At last the dawn shot crimson up the sky;

The tiny toilers crawled away to rest,

And sweet, methinks, was their well-earned repose,

For each its place had filled, its task had done

In keeping with the great Creator's thought.