IT may not be our lot to wield 

The sickle in the ripened field; 

Nor ours to hear on summer eves, 

The reaper's song among the sheaves.

Yet where our duty's task is wrought 

In unison with God's great thought, 

The near and future blend in one, 

And whatso'er is willed is done.


What the leaves are to the forest, 

With light and air for food, 

Ere their sweet and tender juices 

Have been hardened into wood 

That, to the world, are children;

Through them it feels the glow 

Of a brighter and sunnier climate

Than reaches the trunks below.