Читать книгу In Flanders Fields And Other Poems - Lieut.-Col. John McCrae - Страница 33

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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.”