Nothing But Leaves
Nothing
but leaves; the spirit grieves
Over a
wasted life;
Sin
committed while conscience slept,
Promises
made but never kept,
Hatred,
battle, and strife;
Nothing
but leaves!
Nothing
but leaves; no garnered sheaves
Of life’s
fair, ripened grain;
Words,
idle words, for earnest deeds;
We sow our
seeds, —lo! tares and weeds;
We reap,
with toil and pain,
Nothing
but leaves!
Nothing
but leaves; memory weaves
No veil to
screen the past:
As we
retrace our weary way,
Counting
each lost and misspent day,
We find,
sadly, at last,
Nothing
but leaves!
And shall
we meet the Master so,
Bearing
our withered leaves?
The
Saviour looks for perfect fruit;
We stand
before him, humbled, mute;
Waiting
the words he breathes, —
“Nothing but leaves?”
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Nothing But Leaves
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