Our toil is sweet with thankfulness, Our burden is our boon; The curse of earth's gray morning is The blessing of its noon.
The Present, the Present is all thou hast For thy sure possessing; Like the patriarch's angel hold it fast Till it gives its blessing.
And the more you spend in blessing The poor and lonely and sad, The more of your heart's possessing Returns to you glad.
I dimly guess, from blessings known, of greater out of sight.
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