"Bringing Our Sheaves with Us"

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  The time for toil is past, and night has come,--
      The last and saddest of the harvest-eves;
  Worn out with labor long and wearisome,
  Drooping and faint, the reapers hasten home,
          Each laden with his sheaves.

  Last of the laborers thy feet I gain,
      Lord of the harvest! and my spirit grieves
  That I am burdened not so much with grain
  As with a heaviness of heart and brain;--
          Master, behold my sheaves!

  Few, light, and worthless,--yet their trifling weight
      Through all my frame a weary aching leaves;
  For long I struggled with my hapless fate,
  And staid and toiled till it was dark and late,--
          Yet these are all my sheaves.

  Full well I know I have more tares than wheat,--
      Brambles and flowers, dry stalks, and withered leaves
  Wherefore I blush and weep, as at thy feet
  I kneel down reverently, and repeat,
          "Master, behold my sheaves!"

  I know these blossoms, clustering heavily
      With evening dew upon their folded leaves,
  Can claim no value nor utility,--
  Therefore shall fragrancy and beauty be
          The glory of my sheaves.

  So do I gather strength and hope anew;
      For well I know thy patient love perceives
  Not what I did, but what I strove to do,--
  And though the full, ripe ears be sadly few,
          Thou wilt accept my sheaves.

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