The Daily Task.
Marianne Farningham.
The morning light falls gently on the eyes
And wakes the sleeping men;
And bids them rise and haste to meet the day,
And find their work again.
No one is asked to choose what he will do,
Or take the task loved best,
For God allots the places, and each one
Obeys His high behest.
One, loving silence, passes to the street
And mingles with the crowd,
And finds his daily work awaiting him,
Where noise is long and loud.
And one who hungers for the voice and touch
Of others in the gloom
Is ordered to withdraw from all, and work
Alone within one room.
Another, loving beauty, air, and light,
Passes in sordid ways,
And uncongenial sights, and jarring sounds,
The hours of his best days.
And yet another who could love all work,
And do it thankfully,
Has naught to do but suffer and be still
In patience, perfectly.
Are, then, the workers at their daily tasks
Unhappy and unblest?
Nay; He who chooses for them gives the wage
Of happiness and rest.
The feet pass swiftly to the place of toil,
The lips break into song,
And ready hands receive the allotted task,
Nor find the hours too long.
Because the loyal heart is true to God,
And the deft hand obeys
The Master, who decides what each shall do,
Joy fills the working days.
And so, if but the soul be leal, the task
Itself becomes more dear,
And every worker finds that work well done
Is work that brings good cheer.