The Little Lights

LUCIE HASKELL HILL

How brave are they whose task it is to keep the small lights gleaming:
The mother sitting, book in hand, in some high mountain home;
The sailor sending forth the truth into the storm's fierce seeming;
The patient farmer waiting for his harvest time to come.

How stanch the little band whose daily unselfed prayers ascending,
Hold open wide the door of some small, humble "upper room;"
Who, year by year, the lamp of Love so loyally are tending,
That it may cast its beam abroad and lighten up the gloom.

The little lights! Ah, yes! they must be kept aloft and burning!
For many are not found beneath the great light's searching ray;
We know not when some wanderer may long to be returning,
Nor which small light may beckon him into the homeward way!

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