But the small and struggling lights which a breath of storm might kill,
Each fain to light a continent, but doomed to smallness still,
Is there no one to praise them for their service of goodwill?
Yes, one, the Lord of all, who is the source of Light;
He sees them where they burn in the blackness of Earth’s night,
And the larger and the less alike are precious in his sight.
He is the secret source by which their flames are fed,
From the beacon’s wide, white ray which flashes overhead,
To the intermittent ray which the half-spent tapers shed;
And to each he says, “Well done,” which has bravely sought to burn.