The Augustinian Farmer to His Son in Wartime - a poem

 It is not our part to master all the tides of the world, but to do what is in us for the succour of those years wherein we are set, uprooting the evil in the fields that we know, so that those who live after may have clean earth to till. What weather they shall have is not ours to rule.

The Return of the King

"Sundown" by Dame Laura Knight. 

The Augustinian Farmer to His Son in Wartime 

Get up, my lad, and shut the door;  

I've closed and latched the gate.  

Our best we've done. Rise up, my son;  

Let us work and wait.    

Though others march with heavy step  

And leaded weapons ready,  

We two will stand with calloused hands,  

Our seeds and spades held steady.    

Come here, my lad, come to the fields  

And see the many mounds 

That hold the hopes we shall not see  

Grow up from out the ground.   

Yet still we plant our seeds, my son,

Though now we sow in tears;

We plant and tend and carry on

Though burdened by our fears.

  

Yes, we shall plant the seeds, my son 

Though we'll not see the fill,

Though we'll not reap the harvest, still

We plant for those who will.

Listen, lad, and tend your land  

And love with open heart, 

And speak the truth and trust our God

And choose the better part.

Get up, get up and shut the door

On fear, despair, and hate;

For Evil, weak, and can only mar,

But Goodness works and waits.

And I inquired what iniquity was, and ascertained it not to be a substance, but a perversion of the will, bent aside from You, O God, the Supreme Substance, towards these lower things, and casting out its bowels, and swelling outwardly.

The Confessions (Book VII, chapter 16)