She had no song to sing; her notes were dumbWith minor drabs and greys –
Those little frets which daily seemed to come
And silent psalms of praise.
The toiling and the “making both ends meet” –
The ruts of commonplace –
Had blotted out the smile, all cheery, sweet
Which once had sunned her face.
She paused and thought; then took a long days rest
Of hand and foot and brain;
And strength and hope crept back into her breast
With carols once again.
Lilian Gard, 1919.
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