When Will The Day Bring Its Pleasure? When Will The Night Bring Its Rest? Reaper And Gleaner And Thresher Peer Toward The East And The West: - The Sower He Knoweth, And He Knoweth Best. Meteors Flash Forth And Expire, Northern Lights Kindle And Pale; These Are The Days Of Desire, Of Eyes Looking Upward That Fail; Vanishing Days As A Finishing Tale. Bows Down The Crop In Its Glory Tenfold, Fifty-Fold, Hundred-Fold; The Millet Is Ripened And Hoary, The Wheat Ears Are Ripened To Gold: - Why Keep Us Waiting In Dimness And Cold? The Lord Of The Harvest, He Knoweth Who Knoweth The First And The Last: The Sower Who Patiently Soweth, He Scanneth The Present And Past: He Saith, "What Thou Hast, What Remaineth, Hold Fast." Yet, Lord, O'Er Thy Toil-Wearied Weepers The Storm-Clouds Hang Muttering And Frown: On Threshers And Gleaners And Reapers, O Lord Of The Harvest, Look Down; Oh For The Harvest, The Shout, And The Crown! "Not So," Saith The Lord Of The Reapers, The Lord Of The First And The Last: "O My Toilers, My Weary, My Weepers, What Ye Have, What Remaineth, Hold Fast. Hide In My Heart Till The Vengeance Be Past."