TRIFLES.


 


 


ARE there any "little" things,—


Those we deem so are so great!


Poison fangs are hidden and small,


But they kill the strongest man;


Poisonous weeds can harm us all,


More than leafy forests can;


Little lies on little wings


Are dread messengers of fate.


Little rifts make music cease,


Little rocks sink vessels great,


Little leaks in dam and dike


Loose the floods to spoil and rend;


Little whispered words can strike


Cruel blows at heart of friend,


Little signs be auguries


Of great changes in the state.


Little habits grow to chains


Which can fetter man's strong will;


Little kindnesses can heal,


Little helps may save a soul;


Little hands for woe or weal


Can the sternest lives control;


Fortunes start from petty gains;


Every river was a rill.


"Small," we say, "of little worth,"


Heedless what the end shall be;


But the angels sadly sigh


Over what we so despise,


And the small faults we decry


Bring a cloud to heavenly eyes,


And the petty deeds of earth


Mold the long eternity.






S. S. Times