Ruth Pitter Quotes

We go in withering July To ply the hard incessant hoe; Panting beneath the brazen sky We sweat and grumble, but we go.

One's homesickness for Heaven finds at least an inn there; and it's an inn on the right road.

We go, in winter's biting wind, On many a short-lived winter day, With aching back but willing mind To dig and double dig the clay.

Poor comfort all comfort: once what the mouse had spared Was enough, was delight, there where the heart was at home

The lily in splendor, the vine in her grace, The fox in the forest, all had their desire, As then I had mine, in the place that was happy and poor.