Classic Poem

God only knows what fate the coming morrow
Holds in its close shut hand —
What wave of joy, what whelming tide of sorrow,
May flood my heart's dry land.

But whether laughter, with its bounding billow,
Rolls up in joyous swell,
Or sorrow darkly flows beneath the willow,
I still will say, 'tis well.

And I will strew my seed upon the waters, —
The sweet soil lies below, —
Whether with smiles or tears it little matters,
So it may spring and grow.

I know my hand may never reap its sowing;
And yet some other may.
And I may never even see it growing —
So short is my little day!

Still must I sow. Though I may go forth weeping,
I cannot, dare not stay.
God grant a harvest! though I may be sleeping
Under the shadows gray.

I know not but the ruthless frosts may wither,
The worms may eat my rose;
There may not be one flower or sheaf to gather.
Blindly I wait — God knows.