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  Until The Day Break  

 

When will the day bring its pleasure?
    When will the night bring its rest?
Reaper and gleaner and thresher
    Peer toward the east and the west:--
    The Sower He knoweth, and He knoweth best.

Meteors flash forth and expire,
    Northern lights kindle and pale;
These are the days of desire,
    Of eyes looking upward that fail;
    Vanishing days as a finishing tale.

Bows down the crop in its glory
    Tenfold, fifty-fold, hundred-fold;
The millet is ripened and hoary,
    The wheat ears are ripened to gold:--
    Why keep us waiting in dimness and cold?

The Lord of the harvest, He knoweth
    Who knoweth the first and the last:
The Sower Who patiently soweth,
    He scanneth the present and past:
    He saith, "What thou hast, what remaineth, hold fast."

Yet, Lord, o'er Thy toil-wearied weepers
    The storm-clouds hang muttering and frown:
On threshers and gleaners and reapers,
    O Lord of the harvest, look down;
    Oh for the harvest, the shout, and the crown!

"Not so," saith the Lord of the reapers,
    The Lord of the first and the last:
"O My toilers, My weary, My weepers,
    What ye have, what remaineth, hold fast.
    Hide in My heart till the vengeance be past."

       - Christina G. Rossetti


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