Classic Poem

Now is the seed-time: God alone,
Beyond our vision weak and dim,
Beholds the end of what is sown;
The harvest-time is hid with him.

It may not be our lot to wield
The sickle in the ripened field,
Nor ours to hear on summer eves
The reaper's song among the sheaves;

Yet where our duty's task is wrought
In unison with God's great thought,
The near and future blend in one,
And whatsoe'er is willed, is done!

Who calls the glorious labor hard?
Who deems it not its own reward?
Who, for its trials, counts it less
A cause of praise and thankfulness?

Be ours the grateful service whence
Comes, day by day, the recompense. —
The hope, the trust, the purpose stayed,
The fountain and the noon-day shade.