The Falling Leaves-G. D. Roberts (1860-1943)

Lightly He blows, and at His breath they fall,
     The perishing kindreds of the leaves; they drift,
Spent flames of scarlet, gold aerial,
     Across the hollow yeara, noiseless and swift.
Lightly He blows, and countless as the falling
     Of snow by night upon the solemn sea,
The ages circle down beyond recalling
     To strew the hollows of Eternity.
He sees them drifting through the spaces dim.
 And leaves and ages are as one to Him.

The Sower-Sir Charles G. D. Roberts (1860-1943)

A brown, sad-coloured hillside, where the soil
     Fresh from the frequent harrow deep and fine,
     Lies bare; no break in the remote sky-line,
Save where a flock of pigeons streams aloft,
Startled from feed in some low-lying croft,
     Or far-off spires with yellow of sunset shine
And here the Sower, unwittingly divine,
Exerts the silent forethought of his toil.

Alone he treads the glebe, his measured stride
     Dumb in the yielding soil; and though small joy
     Dwell in his heavy face, as spreads the blind
Pale grain from his dispensing palm aside,
     This plodding churl grows great in his employ;--
     God-like, he makes provision for mankind.