Classic Poem

My life is filled with little wheels,
And if I sleep or wake
They still revolve; so small they are,
No sound at all they make.

At times the dust will clog them so,
They falter in the grooves.
I cannot tell the thing to do —
There's scarce a wheel that moves.

But always, far behind them all,
And as to glorious song,
One mighty wheel serenely turns,
I've known it all life long.

It cannot swerve, exact and smooth,
It spins my thread of fate;
I may not touch it with my hands,
I can but work and wait.

My life is filled with little wheels,
And if I sleep or wake
They still revolve; so small they are,
No sound at all they make.

At times the dust will clog them so,
They falter in the grooves.
I cannot tell the thing to do —
There's scarce a wheel that moves.

But always, far behind them all,
And as to glorious song,
One mighty wheel serenely turns,
I've known it all life long.

It cannot swerve, exact and smooth,
It spins my thread of fate;
I may not touch it with my hands,
I can but work and wait.