right."]

And often, through a night like that, I've waited fer the day
That broke and showed a lonesome sea, a sky all cold and gray;
And, may be, on the spit below, where sea-gulls whirl and screech,
I've seen a somethin' stretched among the fresh weed on the beach;
A draggled, frozen somethin', in the ocean's tangled scum,
That meant a woman waitin' fer a man who'd never come;
And all the drop of comfort in my sorrer I could git
Was this: "I done my best ter save; thank God, the lamp was lit."

And there's lots of comfort, really, to a strugglin' mortal's breast
In the sayin', if it's truthful, of "I done my level best";
It seems ter me that's all there is: jest do your duty right,
No matter if yer rule a land or if yer tend a light.
My lot is humble, but I've kept that lamp a-burnin' clear,
And so, I reckon, when I die I'll know which course ter steer;
The waves may roar around me and the darkness hide the view,
But the lights'll mark the channel and the Lord'll tow me through.

* * * * *

THE LITTLE OLD HOUSE BY THE SHORE

It stands at the bend where the road has its end,
And the blackberries nod on the vine;
And the sun flickers down to its gables of brown,
Through the sweet-scented boughs of the pine.
The roof-tree is racked and the windows are cracked,
And the grasses grow high at the door,