As o'er his furrowed fields which lie br Beneath a coldly dropping sky, br Yet chill with winter's melted snow, br The husbandman goes forth to sow, br Thus, Freedom, on the bitter blast br The ventures of thy seed we cast, br And trust to warmer sun and rain br To swell the germs and fill the grain. br Who calls thy glorious service hard? br Who deems it not its own reward? br Who, for its trials, counts it less br A cause of praise and thankfulness? br It may not be our lot to wield br The sickle in the ripened field; br Nor ours to hear, on summer eves, br The reaper's song among the sheaves. br Yet where our duty's task is wrought br In unison with God's great thought, br The near and future blend in one, br And whatsoe'er is willed, is done! br And ours the grateful service whence br Comes day by day the recompense; br The hope, the trust, the purpose stayed, br The fountain and the noonday shade. br And were this life the utmost span, br The only end and aim of man, br Better the toil of fields like these br Than waking dream and slothful ease.