Classic Poem

Just a single stalk of corn,
Nothing more;
Was there ever a stalk of corn
Cherished so before?

On the window, where the sun
Shines at noon.
And at eve, the tender light
Of the moon.

Half a pint or so of soil —
Hardly that,
Half enough to fill the crown
Of baby's hat.

This it has to feed its life;
This is all.
Yet I love this stalk of corn
Best of all.

Best of all my pets in green
Thou a vine.
By geraniums scented sweet,
Doth entwine.

And I pet it tenderly,
This stalk of corn —
Turn it kindly toward the pane
Every morn.

How it thanks me for its life,
How it grows!
In such thrift, its gratitude
How it shows.

Still I watch and water it.
Though I know.
The slender store of food it has
Is wasting slow.

Never shall the breezes wane
Its yellow hair;
Never tassle crown its top,
Nor golden ear.

Just so much it has to feed,
Then must die;
Who knows but that it may be so
With you or I?

We know not our stock of life,
Great or small;
But the one who keepeth us
Knoweth all.

We live on, a careless life,
Or fiercely toil.
While our only store may be
Half a pint of soil.

Let us, like this stalk of corn,
Do our best,
And to him who loveth us
Leave the rest.