Poems (Kimball)/My Field

by Harriet McEwen Kimball

MY FIELD.

I WILL not wrong thee, O To-day,
 With idle longing for To-morrow;
But patient plough my field and sow
 The seed of faith in every furrow.

Enough for me the loving light
 That melts the cloud's repellent edges;
The still unfolding, bud by bud,
 Of God's most sweet and holy pledges.

I breathe His breath; my life is His;
 The hand He nerves knows no defrauding
The Lord will make this joyless waste
 Wave with the wheat of His rewarding.

Of His rewarding! Yes; and yet
 Not mine a single blade or kernel
The seed is His; the quickening His
 The care unchanging and eternal.

His, too, the harvest song shall be
 When He who blessed the barren furrow
Shall thrust His shining sickle in
 And reap my little field To-morrow.