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.