TRUE woman, gentle and yet strong To strive with misery and wrong,— Thy life was like a rhythmic song 'Mid aimless voices. The poet whose fine ear has caught The music with which life is fraught, Through all discordant deed and thought The world rejoices: He does but listen and translate For us who stand outside the gate The spirit of harmonies we mate With dullest letter: But thou, with patient, loving care, Didst add a lost note here and there To the world's symphony, and dare To make it better. His the ecstatic rapture, thine The dull routine of toil divine, Where sympathy and skill combine In joy most lowly. We, who still blunder, trying to play The tune God sets us day by day, For thy sweet secret, wondering, pray: We learn so slowly. |