We scatter seeds with careless hand,
And dream we ne’er shall see them more;
But for a thousand years
Their fruit appears,
In weeds that mar the land,
Or healthful store.
The deeds we do, the words we say,
Into still air they seem to fleet;
We count them ever past;
But they shall last—
In the dread judgment day,
And we shall meet.
I charge thee by the years gone by,
For the love’s sake of brethren dear,
Keep, then, the one true way
In work or play,
Lest in that world their cry
Of woe thou hear.