The Poetry Corner

Wilt Thou Harass A Driven Leaf?

By Joseph Horatio Chant

O harass not a driven leaf, Nor stubble dry in wrath pursue; A life so brief load not with grief, Nor with thine arrow pierce me through. The fragile leaf, by tempest tost, Is scarcely worth a passing thought; The brook is crossed, and then is lost; There let it lie, a thing of naught. The stubble dry ne'er grows again; To golden grain it gave its sap. It died, and then 'twas left by men To rot betimes, or some mishap. Am I not like the stubble dry And fragile leaf by tempest strewed? Must I not die, then tell me why A thing so frail is thus pursued? A voice replies: "Thy life is frail, Much like the leaf and stubble dry; Thy strength must fail, and as the gale Bears them away, so must thou die; "But live again, in bliss, or pain; For death to man does not end all; Life is not vain, if thou but gain A home in heaven, when I shall call! "To fit thy soul for endless rest, I harass now the driven leaf, But though sore pressed and grief distressed, The life of sorrow will be brief. "And when released from suffering clay, Thy blood-bought spirit shall arise To endless day. Then thou shalt say, The ways of God are good and wise."