Too late, I drew from scanty springs
The barren cheer that in them lies.
Too late, I fettered eager wings
That longed to bathe in bluer skies.
Too late, I squandered golden hours
God gave me for his praise to spend.
Too late, I gathered idle flowers
Forgetful of my journey’s end.
God needs my deed; however small
The help I lend, to work his will,
Not without grief he sees me fall.
Or fail his purpose to fulfil.
New York, March 1, 1854.