Nodding their crests; and at his side there sped
The Golden Spirit, whose yellow harvests trail
Across the continents and fringe the isles,
And freight men’s argosies where’er they sail:
O, what a wealth of sheaves he there outspread!
Came the dear Spirit whom Earth doth love the best,
Fragrant of clover-bloom and new-mown hay,
Beneath whose mantle weary ones finds rest,
On whose green skirts the little children play:
She bore the food our patient cattle crave.