He whom she loves is far away
From her and summer trees;
Daily he toils by dying beds,
Whose woe God only sees.
She cannot share his holy task,
She sits at home and prays,
To sends her dainty handicraft
To cheer his dreary ways.
Each stitch is set in faith and hope;
He feels their mystic spell:
And how they aid his skill and strength
He knows, but cannot tell.
Not all of us may bear the gloom
Where sins and sorrows blend,
But those who do may feel our love
On all their steps attend.
