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."

John McCrae

John Alexander McCrae was a Canadian poet, physician, author, artist, and soldier during World War I. He is best known for writing the famous war memorial poem 'In Flanders Fields.' Born on November 30, 1872, in Guelph, Ontario, McCrae died of pneumonia on January 28, 1918, in Boulogne-sur-Mer, France. His work has been a significant influence on war poetry and remembrance traditions.

John McCrae

Then And Now

John McCrae, Simple Poetry

The Pilgrims

John McCrae, Simple Poetry

The Oldest Drama

John McCrae, Simple Poetry

The Anxious Dead

John McCrae, Simple Poetry

English

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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."

John McCrae

Recompense

        I saw two sowers in Life's field at morn,
        To whom came one in angel guise and said,
        "Is it for labour that a man is born?
        Lo:    I am Ease.    Come ye and eat my bread!"
        Then gladly one forsook his task undone
        And with the Tempter went his slothful way,
        The other toiled until the setting sun
        With stealing shadows blurred the dusty day.

        Ere harvest time, upon earth's peaceful breast
        Each laid him down among the unreaping dead.
        "Labour hath other recompense than rest,
        Else were the toiler like the fool," I said;
        "God meteth him not less, but rather more
        Because he sowed and others reaped his store."

John McCrae

Recompense

I saw two sowers in Life's field at morn,
To whom came one in angel guise and said,
"Is it for labour that a man is born?
Lo: I am Ease. Come ye and eat my bread!"
Then gladly one forsook his task undone
And with the Tempter went his slothful way,
The other toiled until the setting sun
With stealing shadows blurred the dusty day.

Ere harvest time, upon earth's peaceful breast
Each laid him down among the unreaping dead.
"Labour hath other recompense than rest,
Else were the toiler like the fool," I said;
"God meteth him not less, but rather more
Because he sowed and others reaped his store."

John McCrae

Seed-Time And Harvest

As o'er his furrowed fields which lie
Beneath a coldly dropping sky,
Yet chill with winter's melted snow,
The husbandman goes forth to sow,
Thus, Freedom, on the bitter blast
The ventures of thy seed we cast,
And trust to warmer sun and rain
To swell the germs and fill the grain.
Who calls thy glorious service hard?
Who deems it not its own reward?
Who, for its trials, counts it less
A cause of praise and thankfulness?
It may not be our lot to wield
The sickle in the ripened field;
Nor ours to hear, on summer eves,
The reaper's song among the sheaves.
Yet where our duty's task is wrought
In unison with God's great thought,
The near and future blend in one,
And whatsoe'er is willed, is done!
And ours the grateful service whence
Comes da...

John Greenleaf Whittier

The Harvest of the Sea

        The earth grows white with harvest; all day long
        The sickles gleam, until the darkness weaves
        Her web of silence o'er the thankful song
        Of reapers bringing home the golden sheaves.

        The wave tops whiten on the sea fields drear,
        And men go forth at haggard dawn to reap;
        But ever 'mid the gleaners' song we hear
        The half-hushed sobbing of the hearts that weep.

John McCrae

The Harvest Of The Sea

The earth grows white with harvest; all day long
The sickles gleam, until the darkness weaves
Her web of silence o'er the thankful song
Of reapers bringing home the golden sheaves.

The wave tops whiten on the sea fields drear,
And men go forth at haggard dawn to reap;
But ever 'mid the gleaners' song we hear
The half-hushed sobbing of the hearts that weep.

John McCrae