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Across the street, an humble woman lives; To her 'tis little fortune ever gives; Denied the wines of life, it puzzles me To know how she can laugh so cheerily. This morn I listened to her softly sing, And, marvelling what this effect could bring I looked: 'twas but the presence of a child Who passed her gate, and looking in, had smiled. But self-encrusted, I had failed to see The child had also looked and laughed to me. My lowly neighbour thought the smile God-sent, And singing, through the toilsome hours she went. O! weary singer, I have learned the wrong Of taking gifts, and giving naught of song; I thought my blessings scant, my mercies few, Till I contrasted them with yours, and you; To-day I counted much, yet wished it more— While but a child's bright smile was all your store,

If I had thought of all the stormy days, That fill some lives that tread less favoured ways, How little sunshine through their shadows gleamed, My own dull life had much the brighter seemed; If I had thought of all the eyes that weep Through desolation, and still smiling keep,