O trifling task so often done,
Yet ever to be done anew!
O cares which come with every sun,
Morn after morn, the long years through!
We sink beneath their paltry sway--
The irksome calls of every day.
The restless sense of wasted power,
The tiresome round of little things,
Are hard to bear, as hour by hour
Its tedious iteration brings;
Who shall evade or who delay
The small demands of every day?
The bowlder, in the torrent's course
By tide and tempest lashed in vain,
Obeys the wave-whirled pebble's force
And yields its substance grain by grain;
So crumble strongest lives away
Beneath the wear of every day.
Who finds the lion in his lair,
Who tracks the tiger for his life
May wound them ere they are aware,
Or conquer them in desperate strife,
Yet powerless he to scathe or slay
The vexing gnats of every day.
The steady strain that never stops
Is mightier than the fiercest shock;
The constant fall of water drops
Will groove the adamantine rock;
We feel our noblest powers decay
In feeble wars with every day.
We rise to meet a heavy blow--
Our souls a sudden bravery fills--
But we endure not always so
The drop by drop of little ills;
We still deplore, and still obey,
The hard behests of every day.
The heart which boldly faces death
Upon the battle-field, and dares
Cannon and bayonet, faints beneath
The needle-points of frets and cares;
The stoutest spirits they dismay--
The tiny stings of every day.
And even saints of holy fame,
Whose souls by faith have overcome,
Who won amid the cruel flame
The molten crown of martyrdom,
Bore not without complaint alway
The petty pains of every day.
Ah, more than martyr's aureole,
And more than hero's heart of fire,
We need the humble strength of soul
Which daily toils and ills require;
Sweet Patience! grant us, if you may,
An added grace for every day.