Poetry Archives

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.”