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 helpful 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 they
And we shall meet.
I charge thee by the years gone by,
For the love's sake of brethren dear,
Keep thou the one true way,
In work and play,
Lest in that world their cry
Of woe thou hear.
--John Keble.
Still shines the light of holy lives
Like star beams over doubt;
Each sainted memory, Christlike, drives
Some dark possession out.
--John Greenleaf Whittier.