Humility

There is a little riverDown below the meadow-land,Where the ripples beat in musicOn the snowy, pebbled sand,And the foam from tiny rapidsGlistens like a spirit hand.

There are no wondrous cataractsTo win a nation's gaze,No cruel, treacherous eddies,No wild and devious ways;But the sweet river waters fields,And gladdens lonely braes.

There frowns not on its bordersThe castle of a king;But down in shady valleys,Where bells of cattle ring,They say the little riverIs a kind and blessed thing.

No hoary, stately cypresses,Crowned with clinging mistletoe,Lean o'er the quiet waters,Or are mirrored in their flow;And yet the river's power is feltIn ocean's undertow.

And a single word of kindness,Spoken to a heart that's cold,May be priceless as the jewelsWhich princes wore of old!For a little smile of charityIs better than fine gold.