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NEIGHBORS.
All day within the mine's deep grave
The heat and dust and gloom he bore
Right valiantly, a willing slave,
To win—a little heap of ore!
His neighbor on the hill-top stood
To feel the winds blow on his face,
Or roamed within the silent wood,
Lost in the beauty of the place.
Of Nature's handicraft a few
Frail blossoms gathered by the way,
Some grasses and a shell or two
Were all he had at close of day.
Adjudge, ye wise, which of the twain
On that sweet summer day won most;
How shall we measure loss or gain—
On what achievement make our boast?
O, is there not a place for each?
One wins his soul by sweat of brow,
Another by the inward reach,—
And God hath need of both, I trow.
