In Flanders Fields, and Other Poems by John McCrae
In Due Season
If night should come and find me at my toil, When all Life's day I had, tho' faintly, wrought, And shallow furrows, cleft in stony soil Were all my labour: Shall I count it naught
If only one poor gleaner, weak of hand, Shall pick a scanty sheaf where I have sown? "Nay, for of thee the Master doth demand Thy work: the harvest rests with Him alone."