Poem by John McCrae

In Due Season

If night should come and find me at my toil,
When all Life’s day I had, tho’ faintly, wrought,
And shallow furrows, cleft in stony soil
Were all my labour: Shall I count it naught

If only one poor gleaner, weak of hand,
Shall pick a scanty sheaf where I have sown?
”Nay, for of thee the Master doth demand
Thy work: the harvest rests with Him alone.”

1. The Dying of Pere Pierre
2. Equality
3. Unsolved
4. The Harvest of the Sea
5. Upon Watts’ Picture ”Sic Transit”

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