John McCrae

In Due Season

If night should come and find me at my toil,
    When all Life's day I had, tho' faintly, wrought,
And shallow furrows, cleft in stony soil
    Were all my labour: Shall I count it naught

If only one poor gleaner, weak of hand,
    Shall pick a scanty sheaf where I have sown?
"Nay, for of thee the Master doth demand
    Thy work: the harvest rests with Him alone."