What Thee Knows'T of Toil

What thee knows't of toil, I ask in kind, Of labor's sweat and tireless grind? Forsooth, I've witnessed toil's weary plight, And felt its weight upon my brow, despite. To toil is to labor with all thy might, To toil is to toil from morn till night. In fields of soil, 'neath the scorching sun, Bearing burdens heavy, toiling 'til day is done. With calloused hands and aching back, Toiling souls endure life's relentless attack. From dawn's first light 'til twilight's gleam, Toiling hearts strive, chasing a dream. Toil knows no boundaries, no creed, nor race, It dwells in each endeavor, in every place. From the scholar's desk to the worker's toil, Toil's arduous dance encompasses all soil. Yet, in the midst of toil's demanding chore, A flicker of hope, an ember to adore. For toil's labor births a sense of worth, A purpose fulfilled, a testament of birth. So, let us not disdain the toiling way, For toil bears fruits, though delayed its pay. In toil we find strength, resilience, and might, A testament to the human spirit's light. So, what thee knows't of toil, my friend? Have thee felt its burden, its demands to tend? For to know toil is to know life's truest test, And in toil's embrace, we find our very best.