These are her gifts, and to her they return;
All we have gathered must go to her keeping,
When she ourselves shall in darkness inurn.”
Then who art filling each hour’s golden measure
Full of good deeds, and of kindness and love,
Who bindeth the wounded, and helpeth the weary,
For what is thy toil—who thy work shall approve?
“High heaven will approve, though my labors are humble,
For the soul’s truest welfare I toil, not in vain;
Earth from her bosom such treasures bestows not,