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[31] The hands grew weary that fain had labored,
     Nor asked for rest till their stent was done,
Till now, scarce heeded, their work is lying
     Unfinished at nearly the set of sun.

The brain I trusted has lost its cunning,
     And when I look for its wonted aid,
The answer comes in a voice unready,
     That leaves me doubting and sore afraid,

I sought the field in the early morning,
     When life was gladsome and hope was high,
And I said, “I will work with a hand unwearied, And gather a harvest by and by.

But the days and the years in swift succession,
     While I was waiting, by me passed;
And when I looked for a golden harvest,
     I found but a dreary waste at last!

Maybe some gleanings may still be waiting
     For me to cull, ere Thy call shall come,
So empty-handed I need not enter,
     Shame-faced and weeping, the gates of home!

It will not be long,—the Messenger cometh;
     Step by step He is drawing near;
I listen, and seem through the dusky gloaming
     Of the Land of Shadows a Voice to hear!

When It calls my name, I will gladly follow,
     Nor fear in the darkness to lose my way;
For Thou, O Master! wilt walk beside me,
     And lead me safety to endless day!

An impression left after one has read much more than can here be quoted is that Mrs. Sawyer, in her most impressionable years, had felt, in connection with many others, that great wave of Romantic tendency that swept about the globe in the days of Byron and Wordsworth. Her poems, notably one called

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