THE farmer planted a seed— 

A little, dry, black seed; 

And off he went to other work— 

For the farmer was never known to shirk; 

And cared for what he had need. 

The night came with its dew—

The cool and silent dew; 

The dawn came, and the day, 

And the farmer worked away 

At labors not a few. 

Home from his work one day— 

One growing summer day— 

His children showed him a perfect flower; 

It had burst in bloom that very hour; 

How, I cannot say. 

But I know if the smallest seed 

In the soul of love be cast, 

Both day and night will do their part; 

And the sower who works with a trusting heart 

Will find the flower at last.