The Time For Toil Is Past And Night Has


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,
Each laden with his sheaves.

Few, light, and worthless-yet their trifling weight
Thro’ 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,
Yet these are all my sheaves.

Full well I know I have more tares than wheat,
Brambles and flow’rs, dry stalks and withered leaves;
Wherefore I blush and weep, as at thy feet
I kneel down reverently, and repeat,
“Master, behold my sheaves,”
“Master, behold my sheaves.”

So do I gather hope and strength 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,
Thou wilt accept my sheaves.