Yea, I have come a weary way,
But have not been afraid;
The stones that bruised, the thorns that stung,
My feet have not delayed;
I shrank not from the lowliest task,
But worked while others played.
In the sweat of my face I earned my bread,
And ate it oft alone;
For me no banquet cymbals clashed,
No banquet candles shone—
But one pale lamp which deeper made
The shadows round me thrown.
But ah, what dreams have I not dreamed
Alone beside my fire;
What songs has my brave heart not sung
To my soul’s voiceless lyre;
What prayers have not borne up to God
My exquisite desire?
So pass my garret by, O world,
Pass by on sandalled feet;
So sweet have been these years of toil,
Ye could not guess how sweet—
Ye heedless revellers that pass
Down in the crowded street.
What though the shadows have been deep,
The way been lone and far;
What though the bitter word and thorn
Have left full many a scar?
The humblest toiler is a king
If he follows one white star.
“The Toiler Speaks” may have never been published. To our current knowledge, it appeared in no periodicals or newspapers, and is not printed in any of Higginson’s books. The Center for Pacific Northwest Studies archives holds a typed copy of the poem.