I cannot choose but deem it right,
To speak of those who toil in light,
Whose daily labour, silent, true,
Builds up the earth for me and you.
They sweat, they strive, they bear the load,
Across the city, street, and road;
Yet ne’er a laurel wreath is theirs,
Though all the world partakes their cares.
The humblest hand, the simplest deed,
In secret finds its noble meed;
And he who labours for the whole,
Wears in his heart a crown of soul.