[Written for the Sentinel]

The Little Foxes

The Master of the vineyard spake:
I charge you do not fail to take
The little foxes, every one,
That sometimes in my vineyard run—

The little foxes that the eye
Does not amid the leaves espy,
Where hidden on the vines they prey,
And slowly sap their strength away.

The little foxes spoil the vines,
The richness of the wine declines;
And when 'tis needed to inspire,
It fails to yield the sacred fire.

Take, then, these foxes without fail,
Let them no more the vines assail.
Discouragement, resentment, doubt,
Sloth, fear, and haste,—put all to rout.

Thus shall the vines rich clusters bear,
And presses yield a vintage rare,
Inspiring daily grateful praise,
And nobler words and works and ways.

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