Labor and the Angel

by Duncan Campbell Scott

Of the great grapes the vine-field yields,

Of the ripe peaches bright as flowers,

And the rich hop-fields.

Sing me a song of the fallen mast,

Of the sharp odor the pomace sheds,

Of the purple beets left last

In the garden beds.

Sing me a song of the toiling bees,

Of the long flight and the honey won,

Of the white hives under the apple-trees,