Poems (Hoffman)/The Little Toiler
THE LITTLE TOILER.
While our tired hands are resting, while our weary feet are still,While soft slumber calms and quiets busy brain and active will;There's a little willing worker stationed in each human breastThat can never stop to slumber, taking but a second's rest. Beating, beating, Still repeatingMeasured notes of labor's strife; Ceasing never, Toiling everAt the glowing forge of life.
When our powers in weakness languish and our strength is ebbing low,When the wheels of thought and feeling at our word refuse to go;With our eager, restless fingers growing idler day by day,At his wheel the little toiler, faithful, steady, works away. Throbbing, throbbing, 'Midst the sobbingOf the stricken in the strife; Toiling ever, Idling neverAt the cistern wheel of life.
And the keepers all shall tremble and the strong their weakness know, And in sorrows all the daughters of music be brought low;And the golden bowl be broken and the silver cord be loosed,Ere the little anxious toiler hath his changeless labor ceased. Moving slower, Beating lower,Struggling bravely in the strife; First awaking, Last in breakingAt the crimson font of life.