Whose lives are wrapped in shade and whisperings;
In league with Earth and all the things that live
To give their toil for others and forgive.
Pausing to let the hush of evening pass
Across the soul, as shadow over grass,
They cease their day-long sacrament of toil,
That living prayer, the tilling of the soil!
And richer are their two-fold worshippings
Than flare of pontiff or the pomp of kings.
For each true deed is worship: it is prayer,