TRIFLES.
ARE there any "little" things,—
Those we deem so are so great!
Poison fangs are hidden and small,
But they kill the strongest man;
Poisonous weeds can harm us all,
More than leafy forests can;
Little lies on little wings
Are dread messengers of fate.
Little rifts make music cease,
Little rocks sink vessels great,
Little leaks in dam and dike
Loose the floods to spoil and rend;
Little whispered words can strike
Cruel blows at heart of friend,
Little signs be auguries
Of great changes in the state.
Little habits grow to chains
Which can fetter man's strong will;
Little kindnesses can heal,
Little helps may save a soul;
Little hands for woe or weal
Can the sternest lives control;
Fortunes start from petty gains;
Every river was a rill.
"Small," we say, "of little worth,"
Heedless what the end shall be;
But the angels sadly sigh
Over what we so despise,
And the small faults we decry
Bring a cloud to heavenly eyes,
And the petty deeds of earth
Mold the long eternity.
S. S. Times