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 soilWere 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 demandThy work: the harvest rests with Him alone.”
John Mccrae
An Essay in Character