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<br/>
<h2> In Due Season </h2>
<p>If night should come and find me at my toil,<br/>
When all Life's day I had, tho' faintly, wrought,<br/>
And shallow furrows, cleft in stony soil<br/>
Were all my labour: Shall I count it naught<br/>
<br/>
If only one poor gleaner, weak of hand,<br/>
Shall pick a scanty sheaf where I have sown?<br/>
"Nay, for of thee the Master doth demand<br/>
Thy work: the harvest rests with Him alone."<br/></p>
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