The Sower.
“ This is the strife, and eke the affraie,
And the batill, that lasteth aie.”
—Chaucer.
Though his heart may dare to glory,
Conscious of a God innate—
Yet to read his future story,
To foresee his future fate,
To fore-sing his future singing,
Never doth the Poet heed :
Every day to him is bringing
All of which the day hath need.
Faithful is his hand and fearless :
Wholesome seed, he knoweth well,
May be sown in weather cheerless,
But will spring up where it fell.
Seed was given to his keeping,
And from Heaven it was sent ;
He has sown it. Is it sleeping
In the soil ?—he is content.