1 Nothing but leaves, the Spirit grieves
Over a wasted life;
O'er us indulged while conscience slept,
O'er vows and promises unkept,
And reap from years of strife--
Nothing but leaves, Nothing but leaves.

2 Nothing but leaves, no gather'd sheaves
Of life's fair rip'ning grain;
We sow our seeds, lo! tares and weeds,
Words, idle words, for earnest deeds,
We reap, with toil and pain,--
Nothing but leaves.

3 Nothing but leaves, and mem'ry weaves;
No vail to hide the past;
And as we trace our weary way,
Counting each lost and misspent day,
Sadly we find at last--
Nothing but leaves.

4 Ah! who shall thus the Master meet,
Bearing but withered sheaves?
Ah! who shall at the Saviour's feet,
Before the awful judgment-seat,
Lay down, for golden sheaves,
Nothing but leaves?