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 breast
That can never stop to slumber, taking but a second's rest.
Beating, beating,
Still repeating
Measured notes of labor's strife;
Ceasing never,
Toiling ever
At the glowing forge of life.
While soft slumber calms and quiets busy brain and active will;
There's a little willing worker stationed in each human breast
That can never stop to slumber, taking but a second's rest.
Beating, beating,
Still repeating
Measured notes of labor's strife;
Ceasing never,
Toiling ever
At 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 sobbing
Of the stricken in the strife;
Toiling ever,
Idling never
At the cistern wheel of life.
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 sobbing
Of the stricken in the strife;
Toiling ever,
Idling never
At the cistern wheel of life.
And the keepers all shall tremble and the strong their weakness know,
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