Sow in the morn thy seed,
At eve hold not thy hand;
To doubt and fear give thou no heed,
Broadcast it o’er the land.
Thou know’st not which may thrive,
The late or early sown;
God keeps His precious seed alive,
When and wherever thrown.
Thou canst not toil in vain;
Cold, heat, and moist, and dry,
Shall foster and mature the grain
For garners in the sky.
Thence, when the glorious end,
The day of God is come,
The angels reapers shall descend,
And heav’n cry, “Harvest Home.”
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem