I never took a towel with fear
To dip in bowls of strain,
So why do these afflict me when
I play my song again?

Am I a greater person than
The Servant was who lived?
Are these who sit before me
More in worth than those he loved?

Why is my task so different?
Can my few moments be
Profounder work than all performed
By those who bent a knee?

And is this work so vital
That I can't afford to err?
Did any thought at all like this
One moment strike him there?

I wish it all were different!
I wish I always found
I'd met somebody's certain need
When playing certain sounds.

I wish that when I labored
Someone else's life improved.
Instead I fear each hour played
Is one for self I've lived.

And if not, why not?
Can perfected pitches heal a soul?
And if so, how can I
Bind private efforts to this goal?

Is playing truly service?
Doesn't every nerve reveal
My selfish goals?  If giving's
All I want, what's this I feel?

The world's got scores of other tasks
Without this endless dread,
The ones—quite naturally—
Which leave my brother clothed and fed.

So why go back to start
An inward fight without an end—
And with such meager impact
For the toils that I would spend?

But maybe—here is something—
This dilemma is my cross:
To meet, as yet, an unseen need
By counting all things loss;

To labor all my life to learn
To dip a foolish towel
In basins filled with weakness
While I feel a critic scowl.