THE WIDOW'S MITE.
It is the fruit of waking hours
When others are asleep,
When moaning round the low thatched roof
The winds of winter creep.
It is the fruit of summer days
Past in a gloomy room,
When others are abroad to taste
The pleasant morning bloom.
’Tis given from a scanty store
And missed while it is given:
’Tis given—for the claims of earth
Are less than those of heaven.
Few save the poor feel for the poor,
The rich know not how hard
It is to be of needful food
And needful rest debarred.
Their paths are paths of plenteousness;
They sleep on silk and down,
And never think how heavily
The weary head lies down.
They know not of the scanty meal
With small pale faces round;
No fire upon the cold, damp hearth,
When snow is on the ground.
They never by their window sit,
And see the gay pass by;
Yet take their weary work again,
Though with a mournful eye.
The rich, they give—they miss it not—
A blessing cannot be
Like that which rests, thou widowed one,
Upon thy gift and thee!
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