18
A SHEAF GLEANED
Love cheered for a while
My morn with his ray,
But like a ripple or smile
My youth passed away.
Now near Beauty I sigh,
But fled is the spring!
Sing—said God in reply,
Chant, poor little thing.
All men have a task,
And to sing is my lot—
No meed from men I ask
But one kindly thought.
My vocation is high—
'Mid the glasses that ring,
Still—still comes that reply,
Chant, poor little thing.
