It has no boast to make at all.
Patient it holds unto its task
Summer and Winter, Spring and Fall,
With naught to tell and naught to ask.
Humble and steady, sure and true,
Seeking no change of work or place,
It has its given work to do,
And does it with a changeless grace.
In its deep channel underground
It serves its purpose day by day,
Without a stir, without a sound,
Though days be fair, though days be gray.
And yet what power is carried down
The conduit through which it runs
To turn the factories of the town,
And flood its streets with blazing suns.
I know some men who are the same.
They make no boast with foolish lips,
But all their spirits are aflame.
Power tingles to their finger tips.
“I am not eloquent” (1926)
“I am not eloquent,” he said.
“I cannot spin of thought’s fine gold
A sentence lovely to be read,
A story wondrous to be told.”
Thus did he answer God one day
Upon a new Tiberian shore.
And God said, “No, but you can say
The word of love. I ask no more.”
And so across the hurried years,
Across the mighty land and sea,
Through calm and tempest, joy and tears,
He bore the message faithfully.
He bore it till the set of sun,
Until his time and strength were spent.
Today the service he has done,
Beyond all speech, is eloquent.