Chill the air and hard the ground;
Not one ray of sun­shine lieth;
O’er the moor, with hol­low sound,
Moaning low, the cold wind sigh­eth.
Sower, break the stub­born soil,
Lavish in its fur­rows heap­ing;
Cease not from thy pa­tient toil,
Sow the seed and wait the reap­ing.

Summer sun­shine on the hill;
Birds on ev­ery green tree sing­ing;
Shouts of joy the soft air fill,
Home the har­vest they are bring­ing.
And the sow­er on the plain,
His long bur­ied seed now find­ing,
Mellow heaps of rip­ened grain
Into gold­en sheaves is bind­ing.

In the dark and nar­row tomb,
Costlier seed we bu­ry weep­ing,
And en­wrapped in qui­et gloom,
Leave it to the Mas­ter’s keep­ing.
To the end we can­not see,
Faith her heav’n­ly vi­sion blend­ing,
We our bur­ied trea­sure greet,
Sown in tears, but reaped in glo­ry.