In Due Season

If night should come and find me at my toil,

When all Life's day I had, tho' faintly, wrought,

And shallow furrows, cleft in stony soil

Were all my labour:  Shall I count it naught

If only one poor gleaner, weak of hand,

Shall pick a scanty sheaf where I have sown?

"Nay, for of thee the Master doth demand

Thy work:  the harvest rests with Him alone."