To the Humble

If all the flowers were roses,

If never daisies grew,

If no old-fashioned posies

Drank in the morning dew,

Then man might have some reason

To whimper and complain,

And speak these words of treason,

That all our toil is vain.

If all the stars were Saturns

That twinkle in the night,

Of equal size and patterns,

And equally as bright,

Then men in humble places,

With humble work to do,

With frowns upon their faces

Might trudge their journey through.

But humble stars and posies

Still do their best, although

They're planets not, nor roses,

To cheer the world below.

And those old-fashioned daisies

Delight the soul of man;

They're here, and this their praise is:

They work the Master's plan.

Though humble be your labor,

And modest be your sphere,

Come, envy not your neighbor

Whose light shines brighter here.

Does God forget the daisies

Because the roses bloom?

Shall you not win His praises

By toiling at your loom?

Have you, the toiler humble,

Just reason to complain,

To shirk your task and grumble

And think that it is vain

Because you see a brother

With greater work to do?

No fame of his can smother

The merit that's in you.