Poem October 5, 1907 Issue

[Written for the Sentinel.]

TRIFLES

CASSIUS M. LOOMIS.

A crumb from the Master's table,
A tear from the love-lit eye,
A pang from the mother's bosom,
A beam from the noonday sky.
Trifles?—yea, so in the seeming;
Mere dots on the milky way.
But by Him who fashioned the heavens,
Who maketh the night and day,
These trifles are caught in the gloaming
And stored in the great fond breast.
Can the mortal with finite vision
Say what in the end is best?
From trifles a life is moulded,
Thro' a love-thought men go free;
The leper is cleansed of his error,
And the blind are made to see.
Yea, he who hath heard the whispers
Of Truth in the dead of night,
Walks on with a step made firmer
When cometh the morning light.

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