The Reapers

                        The Reapers.

Arouse thee, faint-hearted! what fearest
            That thou goest not forth with the day,
But sitting all listlessly, hearest
            Unheeding the harvesters’ lay?
The sun is far up o’er the hill-top,
            The reapers are out on the plain,
And the strong and brave-hearted are filling
            Their garners with ripe, yellow grain.

The dew has gone up from the clover,
            The morning is waning apace,
The days of the summer are over,
            And winter will autumn displace:
Then why are not out in the valleys,
            And working with hearty good will,
To gather thy share of the harvest,
            Thy garner with plenty to fill?

“I sit in my place all the morning,
            Because when I went to the plain,
In the first early fray of the dawning,
            And looked on the far-waving grain,
I saw, in the midst, sturdy reapers,
            With arms that were steady and true,
Whose sickles went flashing before them,
            Like sunbeams enameled with dew.

“And strong as the warriors of olden;
            They stood in the midst of their sheaves,
While before them the harvest all golden 
            Swept down like the wind-shaken leaves,
And I knew ‘twas a useless endeavor
            For me to go forth to the plain—
The weak have no place at the harvest,
            No share in the treasures of grain

“They would laugh me to scorn—they would jeer me,
            Those men, in the might of their pride;—
I know all my weakness—and fear me
            To seek for a place at their side.
And so I have stayed in my dwelling,
            While the few has gone up from the plain;
For I have no place at the harvest—
            No share in the treasures of grain.”

Woe betide thee! thou weak and faint-hearted,
            That goest not forth to the field!
For, behold when the day is departed,
            What fruit will thy fearfulness yield?
And what if thy arm be not strongest!
            Will therefore sit idly and pine,
Neglecting to use what is given,
            And wasting e’en that which is thine?

Go forth to thy work, idle dreamer!
            There is room in the harvest for all;
And if thine by the work of the gleaner,
            Gather carefully that which may fall—
So shalt thou have place at the harvest,
            A share of its treasures be thine,
And e’en if thy share by the smallest
            Still let not thy spirit repine.

For the labor of each one is needed,
            The weakest as well as the strong,
And the chorus of no one unheeded
            In the swell of the harvesters’ song.