Classic Poem

I WILL not wrong thee, O To-day,
With idle longing for To-morrow;
But patient plough my field and sow
The seed of faith in every furrow.

Enough for me the loving light
That melts the cloud's repellent edges;
The still unfolding, but by bud,
Of God's most sweet and holy pledges.

I breathe His breath; my life is His;
The hand He nerves knows no defrauding;
The Lord will make this joyless waste
Wave with the wheat of His rewarding.

Of His rewarding! Yes; and yet
Not mine a single blade or kernel;
The seed is His; the quickening His;
The care unchanging and eternal.

His, too, the harvest song shall be
When He who blessed the barren furrow
Shall thrust His shining sickle in
And reap my little field To-morrow.