Classic Poem

The meadow grass is green and blithe,
With gold and purple hues besprent;
It recks not of to-morrow's scythe
Rich in its lavish bloom and scent:
The sun is warm, the evening gay,
Who speaks of aught but life to-day?

The jocund world is borne along
By troops of rosy-finger'd hours,
Its path of merriment and song
Still garlanded with new-cut flowers;
And all her children seem to say,
To-morrow will be as to-day.

But standing from the throng apart
There are who drink of sorrow's springs,
And answer to their bleeding heart
That heart's persistent questionings,
" Is there no harvest far away
Of seed we sow in tears to-day? "

Listen, the world's melodious chime
Grows faint and fainter year by year,
And things to come are shadowing time,
And soon the Master will be here;
God grant us crown'd by Him to say
Eternity is ours to-day.