We are daily busy sowing
Living seeds, and they are growing—
Growing, whether good or ill:
Soon the time will come for reaping;
Will it be a time of weeping?
Or, shall joy our bosoms fill?
We are daily busy sowing,
And too oft no thought bestowing—
Heedless of the NOW or THEN;
Heedless of our spirits' sowings;—
O, what madness stamps our doings!
This is not the work of men!
O that quicken'd souls were ours!
And that "good seed" filled the furrows—
Fill'd the furrows of the heart;
Then a harvest fair would meet us,
And a song of praise would greet us
In the hour when we depart
