Nothing but leaves! The Spirit grieves
O'er years of wasted life;
O'er sins indulged while conscience slept,
O'er vows and promises unkept;
And reaps, from years of strife,
Nothing but leaves! nothing but leaves!
Nothing but leaves! No gathered sheaves
Of life's fair ripening grain:
We sow our seeds; lo, tares and weeds,
Words, idle words, for earnest deeds:
Then reap, with toil and pain,
Nothing but leaves! nothing but leaves!
Nothing but leaves! Sad memory weaves
No veil to hide the past:
And as we trace our weary way,
And count each lost and misspent day,
We sadly find at last —
Nothing but leaves! nothing but leaves!
Ah! who shall thus the Master meet,
And bring but withered leaves?
Ah! who shall at the Saviour's feet,
Before the awful Judgment-seat,
Lay down, for golden sheaves,
Nothing but leaves, nothing but leaves?