SOWING.




WE can never be too careful


What the seed our hands shall sow;


Love from love is sure to ripen,


Hate from hate is sure to grow;


Seeds of good or ill we scatter


Heedlessly along our way;


But a glad or grievous fruitage


Waits us at the harvest day.


Whatsoe'er our sowing be,


Reaping, we its fruits must see.