It Is Not Work, but Worry
By Inez May Felt
It is not the work, but the worry,
That wrinkles the smooth, fair face;
That blends gray hairs with the dusky,
And robs the form of its grace;
That dims the luster and sparkle
Of eyes that were once so bright,
But now are heavy and troubled,
With a weary, despondent light. It is not the work, but the worry,
That drives all sleep away,
As we toss and turn and wonder
About the cares of the day.
Do we think of the hands' hard labor,
Or the steps of the tired feet?
Ah! no, but we plan and ponder
How to make both ends meet. It is not the work, but the worry,
That makes us sober and sad;
That makes us narrow and sordid,
When we should be cheery and glad.
There's a shadow before the sunlight,
And ever a cloud in the blue;
The scent of the roses is tainted;
The notes of the song are untrue. It is not the work, but the worry,
That makes the world grow old;
That numbers the years of its children
Ere half their story is told;
That weakens their faith in heaven,
And the wisdom of God's great plan.
Ah! 'tis not the work, but the worry,
That breaks the heart of man.