Classic Poem

Toilers till the eventide,
By all waters sowing wide,
Faint not for the summer's heat,
Halt not for the weary feet.
Forth! were labor's guerdon less
Than a crown of righteousness.

Wist we of the seed we sow
How the tender blade shall grow,
How the tiny germ may hold
The harvest of an hundred fold,—
Bud and blossom, how they swell,
Momently a miracle?

By our paths of pain and care
Still the lily blossoms fair,
And the sparrow finds her nest
In the temple's sacred rest,—
Witnessing with Him who saith
Be ye faithful unto death.

He who fixed the planet's place
Clothes the lily with its grace;
He who marks the sparrow's fall
Hath His mercy for us all,—
And His loving pity sees
That our life is more than these.

Therefore by the water's side
Toil we till the even tide,
Trusting while a flower may share
The bounty of His love and care,—
Toiling, were our guerdon less
Than a crown of righteousness.