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day within the mine's deep grave
 * The heat and dust and gloom he bore

Right valiantly, a willing slave,
 * To win—a little heap of ore!

His neighbor on the hill-top stood
 * To feel the winds blow on his face,

Or roamed within the silent wood,
 * Lost in the beauty of the place.

Of Nature's handicraft a few
 * Frail blossoms gathered by the way,

Some grasses and a shell or two
 * Were all he had at close of day.

Adjudge, ye wise, which of the twain
 * On that sweet summer day won most;

How shall we measure loss or gain—
 * On what achievement make our boast?

O, is there not a place for each?
 * One wins his soul by sweat of brow,

Another by the inward reach,—
 * And God hath need of both, I trow.