Say not that work is e'er ill‑spent, Say not that effort fails or seems; Say not that he o'er labour bent Is one in the world's many dreams. For not in vain with patient shocks, With timely rush and quick'ning roar, The ocean crashes on the rocks And bounds on to the sounding shore. They check, ‘tis true, his rolling rush, His sturdy beat they seem to scorn, His surging waves with force they crush And turn in spray his billows torn. But days and weeks and months and years He strikes and strikes and strikes amain. And dent on dent in them appears That shows his weary, patient gain. And years may pass or ages go, Those eaten rocks will smaller stand; Still he, with measured aim and slow Shall bend his surging to the land. Sure as the sun, and unperceived As is the growing of a tree, He works and works, nor is deceived By sturdy from that men can see. And when his object full he gains With last and sounding, rending crash, His mighty power he still sustains And onward still his waters dash.
