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
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."
