She only did what lay at hand,--
Work that her own hand found to do:
With no thought of a "mission" grand,
Yet, bit by bit, her mission grew.
She did--what others left undone;
She gleaned behind the harvesters:
The scattered ears of grain let stand
By careless ones,--all these were hers.
Patient, unresting, still she wrought,
Though life beat fainter and more faint:
And only as her soul took flight,
We saw--the aureole of the Saint.