“WILT THOU HARASS A DRIVEN LEAF?”

O harass not a driven leaf,

Nor stubble dry in wrath pursue;

A life so brief load not with grief,

Nor with thine arrow pierce me through.

The fragile leaf, by tempest tost,

Is scarcely worth a passing thought;

The brook is crossed, and then is lost;

There let it lie, a thing of naught.

The stubble dry ne'er grows again;

To golden grain it gave its sap.

It died, and then‘ twas left by men

To rot betimes, or some mishap.

Am I not like the stubble dry

And fragile leaf by tempest strewed?

Must I not die, then tell me why

A thing so frail is thus pursued?

A voice replies: “Thy life is frail,

Much like the leaf and stubble dry;

Thy strength must fail, and as the gale

Bears them away, so must thou die;

“But live again, in bliss, or pain;

For death to man does not end all;

Life is not vain, if thou but gain

A home in heaven, when I shall call!

“To fit thy soul for endless rest,

I harass now the driven leaf,

But though sore pressed and grief distressed,

The life of sorrow will be brief.

“And when released from suffering clay,

Thy blood-bought spirit shall arise

To endless day. Then thou shalt say,

The ways of God are good and wise.”