WHAT DOST THOU WORK FOR?

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BY CAROLINE F. ORNE.

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What dost thou work for, oh, tree of the forest,

Spreading thy branches so wide and so free?

Why hast thou many years wrought in thy season?

What is the end of thy work and of thee?

“Earth, mother earth, I have wrought for and toiled for,

Life still bestows her beneficent breast;

When for her I shall garner up treasures no longer,

Back shall I sink to her bosom to rest.”

What dost thou work for, sweet flower of the wild-wood,

Spreading thy garlands of beauty and bloom?

Why dost thou toil to bring buds into blossom?

Who shall come hither to seek thy perfume?

“Earth, mother earth, ’tis for her that I labor.

Cheerfully work I by night and by day,

All she hath given, and more, shall I measure

Into her bosom, where yet I shall lay.”

Man, that art heaping up riches and treasure—

Man, that art seeking for praise and for fame—

Man, that art chasing the phantoms of pleasure—

Whose is your toil? Who your labor can claim?

“Earth, mother earth; ’tis for her we are toiling,

These are her gifts, and to her they return;

All we have gathered must go to her keeping,

When she ourselves shall in darkness inurn.”

Then who art filling each hour’s golden measure

Full of good deeds, and of kindness and love,

Who bindeth the wounded, and helpeth the weary,

For what is thy toil—who thy work shall approve?

“High heaven will approve, though my labors are humble,

For the soul’s truest welfare I toil, not in vain;

Earth from her bosom such treasures bestows not,

With the soul back to heaven return they again.”