Oh, let me not believe that sands run out
Or that late-blooming trees may set no fruit;
Deliver me from paralyzing doubt
When inspiration wakes a voice long mute.
Let me not think that all the myriad
Steps to perfection are too hard, too long,
Or that time's inexorable period
Must end abruptly unperfected song.
He who with weeping sows, with joy shall reap.
That sacred promise cannot be gainsaid,
Nor death from eager hands the harvest sweep
Although the planting may have been delayed.
Return this answer to foreboding fears:
A day with God is as a thousand years.
