Dearest to those, the Hope Forlorn,

Who, having toiled, scarce wait to hear

The notes of Dawn.

Who spent their day to heal the night,

Who sowed that other men might reap,

Whose simple guerdon is the right

Soundly to sleep.

Fetch laurels then, ye luckier swains,

Who in some later hour are born,

Whose barns brim over with the grains