A widow -- she had only one! A puny and decrepit son; But, day and night, Though fretful oft, and week and small, A loving child, he was her all -- The Widow's Mite. The Widow's Mite -- ay, so sustained, She battled onward, nor complained, Though friends were fewer: And while she toiled for daily fare, A little crutch upon the stair Was music to her. I saw her then, -- and now I see That, though resigned and cheerful, she Has sorrowed much: She has, He gave it tenderly, Much faith; and carefully laid by, The little crutch. |