Down the furrow strides the sower 
From his hands the live seeds leap: 
In his heart the hope of harvest 
Little knowing who will reap: 
Harvest comes in teeming, teeming 
Golden stalk and laden ear - 
But the sower's sleeping, sleeping, 
In the earth he held so dear.
So through life, if I am sowing, 
What to me the toil or gain? 
If my brothers reap the harvest 
I shall not have lived in vain.