It may not be our lot to weild
the sickle in the ripened field
Nor ours to hear on summer eves
The reapers song among the sheaves.
Yet when our duties task is wrought,
in unison with The Creators thought,
The near and future blend as one,
and whatsoever is willed, is done.
And ours the grateful service wence
comes day by day, the recompense
The hope, the trust, the purpose stayed
the fountain and the noonday shade.
Were this life the utmost span
the only end and aim of man
better the toil of fields like these
than walking dreams and slothful ease
but life, though falling like our grain
like that revives and springs again
and early called, how blest are they
who wait with The Creator till harvest day.
The Warrior of Light
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