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For now, the corn house filled, the harvest home, Th' invited neighbors to the husking come; A frolic scene, where work and mirth and play Unite their charms to cheer the hours away.

He that observeth the wind shall not sow; and he that regardeth the clouds shall not reap.

In the morning sow thy seed, and in the evening withhold not thine hand: for thou knowest not whether shall prosper, either this or that, or whether they both shall be alike good.

Be not deceived; God is not mocked: for whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap.

Then saith he unto his disciples, The harvest truly is plenteous, but the labourers are few; Pray ye therefore the Lord of the harvest, that he will send forth labourers into his harvest.

Who eat their corn while yet 'tis green At the true harvest can but glean.

So holy and so perfect is my love, And I in such a poverty of grace, That I shall think it a most plenteous crop To glean the broken ears after the man That the main harvest reaps.

And thus of all my harvest-hope I have Nought reaped but a weedye crop of care.

Think, oh, grateful think! How good the God of Harvest is to you; Who pours abundance o'er your flowing fields, While those unhappy partners of you kind Wide-hover round you, like the fowls of heaven, And ask their humble dole.

Fancy with prophetic glance Sees the teeming months advance; The field, the forest, green and gay; The dappled slope, the tedded hay; Sees the reddening orchard blow, The Harvest wave, the vintage flow.