WE scatter seeds with careless hand, 

And dream we ne'er shall see them more; 

But for a thousand years 

Their fruit appears, 

In weeds that mar the land 

Or healthful store. 

The deeds we do, the words we say,— 

Into still air they seem to fleet, 

We count them ever past; 

But they shall last,— 

In the dread Judgment they 

And we shall meet. 

John Keble.