When will the day bring its pleasure?
        When will the night bring its rest?
Reaper and gleaner and thresher
        Peer toward the east and the west:--
        The Sower He knoweth, and He knoweth best.

Meteors flash forth and expire,
        Northern lights kindle and pale;
These are the days of desire,
        Of eyes looking upward that fail;
        Vanishing days as a finishing tale.

Bows down the crop in its glory
        Tenfold, fifty-fold, hundred-fold;
The millet is ripened and hoary,
        The wheat ears are ripened to gold:--
        Why keep us waiting in dimness and cold?

The Lord of the harvest, He knoweth
        Who knoweth the first and the last:
The Sower Who patiently soweth,
        He scanneth the present and past:
        He saith, "What thou hast, what remaineth, hold fast."

Yet, Lord, o'er Thy toil-wearied weepers
        The storm-clouds hang muttering and frown:
On threshers and gleaners and reapers,
        O Lord of the harvest, look down;
        Oh for the harvest, the shout, and the crown!
"Not so," saith the Lord of the reapers,
        The Lord of the first and the last:
"O My toilers, My weary, My weepers,
        What ye have, what remaineth, hold fast.
        Hide in My heart till the vengeance be past."