The world is very big, and we
Are very small and ignorant,
But, till our Father doth transplant,
Into the garden we forsee—
Fragrant upon a far off lee—
Each frail and quickly withered plant,
He doth to each a duty grant,
And He hath given one to me!
To all the work that doth relate
To aiding these my fellow men,
To peace, to nation, and to state,
To noblest thought & impulse, when
The impulse comes—I dedicate
This heart, this soul, this mind, this pen!