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.

The thankful receiver bears a plentiful harvest.

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

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.

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.