Knowing

One summer day, to a young child I said,
“Write to thy mother, boy.” With earnest face,
And laboring fingers all unused to trace
The mystic characters, he bent his head
(That should have danced amid the flowers instead)
Over the blurred page for a half-hour’s space;
Then with a sigh that burdened all the place
Cried, “Mamma knows!” and out to sunshine sped.
O soul of mine, when tasks are hard and long,
And life so crowds thee with its stress and strain
That thou, half fainting, art too tired to pray,
Drink thou this wine of blessing and be strong!
God knows! What though the lips be dumb with pain,
Or the pen drops? He knows what thou wouldst say.