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S. M.


The Sower.

Sow in the morn thy seed,

At eve hold not thy hand;

To doubt and fear give thou no heed,

Broadcast it o’er the land!

Beside all waters sow,

The highway furrows stock,

Drop it where thorns and thistles grow,

Drop it upon the rock!

The good, the fruitful ground

Expect not here nor there;

O’er hill and dale and plain ’tis found,

Go forth, then, everywhere!

And duly shall appear,

In verdure, beauty, strength,

The tender blade, the stalk, the ear,

And the full corn at length.

Thou canst not toil in vain;

Cold, heat, and moist and dry,

Shall foster and mature the grain

For garners in the sky;


Then when the glorious end,

The day of God, shall come,

The angel-reapers shall descend,

At heaven’s great harvest-home.

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