Sidney Henry Morse (1833–1903)

FRET not that the day is gone,

And thy task is still undone.

’T was not thine, it seems, at all:

Near to thee it chanced to fall,

Close enough to stir thy brain,

And to vex thy heart in vain.

Somewhere, in a nook forlorn,

Yesterday a babe was born:

He shall do thy waiting task;

All thy questions he shall ask,

And the answers will be given,

Whispered clearly out of heaven.

His shall be no stumbling feet,

Failing where they should be fleet;

He shall hold no broken clue;

Friends shall unto him be true;

Men shall love him; falsehood’s aim

Shall not shatter his good name.

Day shall nerve his arm with light,

Slumber soothe him all the night;

Summer’s peace and winter’s storm

Help him all his will perform.

’T is enough of joy for thee

His high service to foresee.