IT MAY NOT BE.
IT may not be our lot to wield
The sickle in the ripened field;
Nor ours to hear on summer eves,
The reaper's song among the sheaves.
Yet where our duty's task is wrought
In unison with God's great thought,
The near and future blend in one,
And whatso'er is willed is done.
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What the leaves are to the forest,
With light and air for food,
Ere their sweet and tender juices
Have been hardened into wood
That, to the world, are children;
Through them it feels the glow
Of a brighter and sunnier climate
Than reaches the trunks below.
Longfellow.