The time for toil is past, and night has come, <br />The last and saddest of the harvest-eves; <br />Worn out with labor long and wearisome, <br />Drooping and faint, the reapers hasten home, <br />Each laden with his sheaves. <br /> <br />Last of the laborers thy feet I gain, <br />Lord of the harvest! and my spirit grieves <br />That I am burdened not so much with grain <br />As with a heaviness of heart and brain; <br />Master, behold my sheaves! <br /> <br />Few, light, and worthless,-yet their trifling weight <br />Through all my frame a weary aching leaves; <br />For long I struggled with my hapless fate, <br />And staid and toiled till it was dark and late, <br />Yet these are all my sheaves. <br /> <br />Full well I know I have more tares than wheat, <br />Brambles and flowers, dry stalks, and withered leaves <br />Wherefore I blush and weep, as at thy feet <br />I kneel down reverently, and repeat, <br />'Master, behold my sheaves!' <br /> <br />I know these blossoms, clustering heavily <br />With evening dew upon their folded leaves, <br />Can claim no value nor utility, <br />Therefore shall fragrancy and beauty be <br />The glory of my sheaves. <br /> <br />So do I gather strength and hope anew; <br />For well I know thy patient love perceives <br />Not what I did, but what I strove to do, <br />And though the full, ripe ears be sadly few, <br />Thou wilt accept my sheaves.<br /><br />Elizabeth Akers Allen<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/bringing-our-sheaves-with-us/
