Sometimes, when I am toil-worn and aweary, <br /> And tired out with working long and well, <br />And earth is dark, and skies above are dreary, <br /> And heart and soul are all too sick to tell, <br />These words have come to me like angel fingers <br /> Pressing the spirit's eyelids down in sleep, <br />'Oh let us not be weary in well doing, <br /> For in due season we shall surely reap.' <br /> <br />Oh, blessed promise! When I seem to hear it, <br /> Whispered by angel voices on the air, <br />It breathes new life and courage to my spirit, <br /> And gives me strength to suffer and forbear. <br />And I can wait most patiently for harvest, <br /> And cast my seeds, nor ever faint, nor weep, <br />If I know surely that my work availeth, <br /> And in God's season, I at last shall reap. <br /> <br />When mind and body were borne down completely, <br /> And I have thought my efforts were all in vain, <br />These words have come to me so softly, sweetly, <br /> And whispered hope, and urged me on again. <br />And though my labour seems all unavailing, <br /> And all my striving fruitless, yet the Lord <br />Doth treasure up each little seed I scatter, <br /> And sometime, sometime, I shall reap the reward.<br /><br />Ella Wheeler Wilcox<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/be-not-weary/
