This is a point she often makes, and strives earnestly to impress—that whatever she may be, whatever the world may think she is, there is substance in her words. It is bread, and will be eaten, if only by the sparrows. So, she is content. She has put this thought, somewhat pathetically, into the little verse which follows:
Loth as Night to dark o’ Day,
Loth do I to sing.
Aye, but doth the Day aneed a song,
’Tis they, o’ Him,
The songsters o’ the Earth,
Do sing them on, to Him.
What though ’tis asmiled? And what
Though ’tis nay aseeked o’ such a song?
Aye, what though ’tis sung ’mid dark?