Across the street, an humble woman lives; <br />To her 'tis little fortune ever gives; <br />Denied the wines of life, it puzzles me <br />To know how she can laugh so cheerily. <br />This morn I listened to her softly sing, <br />And, marvelling what this effect could bring <br />I looked: 'twas but the presence of a child <br />Who passed her gate, and looking in, had smiled. <br />But self-encrusted, I had failed to see <br />The child had also looked and laughed to me. <br />My lowly neighbour thought the smile God-sent, <br />And singing, through the toilsome hours she went. <br />O! weary singer, I have learned the wrong <br />Of taking gifts, and giving naught of song; <br />I thought my blessings scant, my mercies few, <br />Till I contrasted them with yours, and you; <br />To-day I counted much, yet wished it more-- <br />While but a child's bright smile was all your store, <br /> <br />If I had thought of all the stormy days, <br />That fill some lives that tread less favoured ways, <br />How little sunshine through their shadows gleamed, <br />My own dull life had much the brighter seemed; <br />If I had thought of all the eyes that weep <br />Through desolation, and still smiling keep, <br />That see so little pleasure, so much woe, <br />My own had laughed more often long ago; <br />If I had thought how leaden was the weight <br />Adversity lays at my kinsman's gate, <br />Of that great cross my next door neighbour bears, <br />My thanks had been more frequent in my prayers; <br />If I had watched the woman o'er the way, <br />Workworn and old, who labours day by day, <br />Who has no rest, no joy to call her own, <br />My tasks, my heart, had much the lighter grown.<br /><br />Emily Pauline Johnson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/workworn/
