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.

Where in venerable rows Widely waving oaks enclose The moat of yonder antique hall, Swarm the rooks with clamorous call; And, to the toils of nature true, Wreath their capacious nests anew.

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.

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

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.

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