A waif on this earth, <br />Sick, ugly and small, <br />Contemned from my birth <br />And rejected by all, <br />From my lips broke <br />Where - oh where shall I fly? <br />Who comfort will bring? <br />Sing, - said God in reply, <br />Chant poor little thing. <br /> <br /> <br />Life struck me with fright - <br />Full of chances and pain, <br />So I hugged with delight <br />The drudge's hard chain; <br />One must eat, - yet I die, <br />Like a bird with clipped wing, <br />Sing - said God in reply, <br />Chant poor little thing. <br /> <br /> <br />Love cheered for a while <br />My morn with his ray, <br />But like a ripple or smile <br />My youth passed away. <br />Now near Beauty I sigh, <br />But fled is the spring! <br />Sing - said God in reply, <br />Chant poor little thing. <br /> <br /> <br />All men have a task, <br />And to sing is my lot - <br />No meed from men I ask <br />But one kindly thought. <br />My vocation is high - <br />'Mid the glasses that ring, <br />Still - still comes that reply, <br />Chant poor little thing.<br /><br />Toru Dutt<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/my-vocation/
