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."