Classic Poem

We scatter seeds with careless hand,
— — And dream we ne'er shall see them more;
But for a thousand years
Their fruit appears,
In weeds that mar the land,
— — Or healthful shore.

The deeds we do, the words we say, —
— — Into still air they seem to fleet,
We count them ever past;
But they shall last, —
In the dread judgment they
— — And we shall meet.

I charge thee by the years gone by,
— — For the love's sake of brethren dear,
Keep thou the one true way,
In work and play,
Lest in that world their cry
— — Of woe thou hear.