For All

Man’s harvest is past, his summer is ended,
Hope and fear are finished at last,
Day hath descended, night hath ascended,
Man’s harvest is past.

Time is fled that fleeted so fast:
All the unmended remains unmended,
The perfect, perfect: all lots are cast.

Waiting till earth and ocean be rended,
Waiting for call of the trumpet blast,
Each soul at goal of that way it wended,—
Man’s harvest is past.