Work

The dog that dropped his bone to snap at its reflection in the water went dinnerless. So do we often lose the substance--the joy--of our work by longing for tasks we think better fitted to our capabilities.

                                                        

   Let me but do my work from day to day,

    In field or forest, at the desk or loom,

    In roaring market-place or tranquil room;

  Let me but find it in my heart to say,

  When vagrant wishes beckon me astray,

    "This is my work; my blessing, not my doom;

    Of all who live, I am the one by whom

  This work can best be done in the right way."

  Then shall I see it not too great, nor small

    To suit my spirit and to prove my powers;

    Then shall I cheerful greet the laboring hours,

  And cheerful turn, when the long shadows fall

  At eventide, to play and love and rest,

  Because I know for me my work is best.

By Henry Van Dyke.

From "Collected Poems."