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 reap 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?

—L. E. Ackerman.