Little Things

Scorn not the slightest word or deed,

Nor deem it void of power;

There's fruit in each wind-wafted seed,

Waiting it's natal hour.

A whispered word may touch the heart;

And call it back to life;

A look of love bid sin depart,

And still unholy strife.

No act falls fruitless: none can tell

How vast it's power may be:

Nor what results enfolded dwell

Within it, silently.

Work and despair not: give thy mite,

Nor care how small it be;

God is with all that serve the Right,

The holy, true and free.

1847