Coming, The Poem by Ina D. Coolbrith

I gathered flowers the summer long;
I dozed the days on sunny leas,
And wove my fancies into song,
Or dreamed in aimless ease.

Or watched, from jutting cliffs, the dyes
Of changeful waters under me-
The lazy gulls that dip and rise,
White specs upon the sea;

And far away, where blue to blue
Was wed, the ships that came and went;
And thought O happy world! And drew
There from a full content.

My mates toiled in the ripening field,
Nor paused for rest in cool or heat;
The yellow grain made haste to yield
Its harvesting complete:

My mates toiled in their pleasant homes,
They plucked the fruit from laden boughs,
And sang-“For if the Master comes
And find no ready house! ”-

And far and strange their singing seemed,
And harsh the voices every one,
That woke the pleasant dream I dream’d
To thought of tasks undone.

Yet still I waited, lingered still,
Won by a cloud-a soaring lark;
Till, by-and-by, the land was chill,
And all the sky was dark.

And lo, the Master! -Through the night
My mates come forth to welcome Him:
Their labor done, their garments white,
While mine are stained and dim.

They bring to Him their golden sheaves;
To Him their finished toil belongs;
While I have but these withered leaves,
And these poor, foolish songs!