Poems (Kimball)/My Field

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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.
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