The heart which boldly faces death
Upon the battlefield, and dares
Cannon and bayonet, faints beneath
The needle-points of frets and cares.
The stoutest spirits they dismay—
The tiny stings of every day.
Ah! more than martyr’s aureole
And more than hero’s heart of fire,
We need the humble strength of soul
Which daily toils and ills require.
Sweet patience, grant us, if you may
An added grace for every day.
—Adelaide A. Procter.
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