True woman, gentle and yet strong
To strive with misery and wrong, —
Thy life was like a rhythmic song
'Mid aimless voices.
The poet whose fine ear has caught
The music with which life is fraught,
Through all discordant deed and thought,
Is loved and honored.
He does but listen, and translate
For us who stand outside the gate
The harmonies for which we wait,
And yet discern not.
But thou, with patient, loving care,
Didst add a lost note here and there
To the world's symphony, and dare
To make it sweeter.
His the ecstatic rapture, thine
The dull routine of toil divine,
Where sympathy and skill combine
In lowly labor.
We, who have not yet learned to play
The tune God sets us day by day,
Look up with wondering eyes, and say,
"What was thy secret?"
