 | The poems of Robert Traill Spence Lowell |  |
136
THE BARREN FIELD.
Here I labor, weak and lone,
Ever, ever sowing seed;
Ever tending what is sown:
Little is my gain, indeed.
Ever, ever sowing seed;
Ever tending what is sown:
Little is my gain, indeed.
Weary day and restless night
Follow in an endless round;
Wastes my little human might:
Soon my place will not be found.
Follow in an endless round;
Wastes my little human might:
Soon my place will not be found.
Why so stubborn is my field?
Why does little fruit appear?
What an hundred-fold should yield,
Now goes barren all the year.
Why does little fruit appear?
What an hundred-fold should yield,
Now goes barren all the year.
Rank weeds crowd and jostle there,
Nodding vainly in the sun:
But the plants, for which I care,
I may tell them, one by one.
Nodding vainly in the sun:
But the plants, for which I care,
I may tell them, one by one.
137
After all the sun and rain,
Weak and yellow drooping things,
From the lean earth, turned in vain,
These are all my labor wrings!
Weak and yellow drooping things,
From the lean earth, turned in vain,
These are all my labor wrings!
Oh, my Lord, the field is Thine:
Why do I, with empty pride,
Call the little garden mine,
When my work is Thine, beside?
Why do I, with empty pride,
Call the little garden mine,
When my work is Thine, beside?
If I claim it for my own,
Thou wilt give me its poor gain;
And, at harvest, I, alone,
May bring fruits to Thee in vain.
Thou wilt give me its poor gain;
And, at harvest, I, alone,
May bring fruits to Thee in vain.
If I give myself to Thee
For Thy work, all poor and mean,
As Thou pleasest it shall be,
If I much or little glean:
For Thy work, all poor and mean,
As Thou pleasest it shall be,
If I much or little glean:
Yet Thou wilt not spurn my toil,
Or my offering, at the last,
If, from off this meagre soil,
At Thy feet my all is cast.
Or my offering, at the last,
If, from off this meagre soil,
At Thy feet my all is cast.
138
Other work for man is none,
But to do the Master's will;
Wet with rain, or parched with sun,
Meekly I Thy garden till.
But to do the Master's will;
Wet with rain, or parched with sun,
Meekly I Thy garden till.
April 28, 1849.
| The poems of Robert Traill Spence Lowell | |