I.
The harvest time is over! And across the fertile plain
Stand the winrows of the meadows and the stocks of golden grain;
And the aching limbs of labor take the rest of happy ease
From the scorching suns of noon-day in the shadows of the trees.
The harvest time is over! And the husbandman receives
For the days of hard endeavor all the wealth of garnered sheaves;'
And the land of hill and valley smiles exalt with joys untold
Heaping high above the stubbles in the piles of ripened gold!
Harvest time! Harvest time!
Hours of toil are told;
Hill and valley both rejoice
With their wealth of gold!