Classic Poem

Put on your beautiful garments,
O toiling earth, and rest!
The goal is won and the toil is done,
And now you may don your best,
Your robe of purple and scarlet,
Your tassels and plumes of gold,
The misty sheen of your veil of green
And your mantle's crimson fold.

O earth, so glad and so fruitful!
O nature, so brave and true!
I would that we were as wise as ye
In the work we have to do!
We loiter and waste, — we sow not,
Or scatter our seed in vain, —
For the stony field must be wrought to yield
Its treasure of golden grain.

" Put on your beautiful garments,
O toiling soul, and rest! "
Faint heart of mine! to that call divine
Be all thy powers addressed;
Sowing beside all waters,
Faithful in that which is least,
Constant and still, do the Master's will
Till the time of toil has ceased.

Then the peace that shall come and the gladness!
The service that shall be rest!
And the plaudit won of that word, " Well done! "
And the Master's " Come, ye blest! "
O earth! in your sweet fruition
Rejoice and be glad! but this,
The joy of a soul that has reached its goal,
Is a deeper, holier bliss.