What a
world of discontentment;
What a
world of toil and strife:
Is
there one among the millions
Who is
satisfied with life?
Some we
meet upon life's pathway,
Who we know
have goodly store.
Yet we
see upon their faces
Plainly
written "something more."
Others
toiling late and early
To supply
the daily bread,
When
discouraged often murmur,
"Were I
someone else instead."
And the
wanderer, seeking succor
From door
to door, day after day,
In his
thinking moments mutter,
"Such life
as this can never pay."
E'en
the king and queen, oft puzzled,
By their
duties manifold;
Wish so
often in their own hearts,
They were
once more but two years old.
Life is
but a tiny wavelet,
Whether
tossed by storm, or calm,
When
lost upon the sea of action,
Time goes
on giving no alarm.
But as
the wavelet passes outward,
To the
ocean clear and deep;
Just so
life finds its sweetest mission,
When the
body falls asleep.
Quickly
speeding on that mission,
Which is
then to meet its Guide,
Happy,
in a soul's full freedom,
Then it is
we are satisfied.