Classic Poem

The time for toil is past, and night has come,
—The last and saddest of the harvest eves;
Worn out with labor long and wearisome,
Drooping and faint, the reapers hasten home,
—Each laden with his sheaves.

Last of the laborers, Thy feet I gain,
—Lord of the harvest! and my spirit grieves
That I am burdened not so much with grain
As with a heaviness of heart and brain;
—Master, behold my sheaves!

Full well I know I have more tares than wheat,
—Brambles and flowers, dry stalks and withered leaves;
Wherefore I blush and weep, as at thy feet
I kneel down reverently and repeat:
—“Master, behold my sheaves!”

Few, light and worthless; yet their trifling weight
—Through all my frame a weary aching leaves;
For long I struggled with my hapless fate,
And stayed and toiled till it was dark and late,
—But these are all my sheaves.

And yet I gather strength and hope anew,
—For well I know thy patient love perceives
Not what I did, but what I strove to do;
And though the full, ripe ears be sadly few,
—Thou wilt accept my sheaves.