Poisoned prick in a tired breast.
Gather and bind,
Fate is but blind.
Golden grain ripens though dear ones may weep;
Love longs for gladness, but toil must have sleep.
Kine knee-deep in the glistening straw;
Flocks of birds round the threshing-floor;
Clouds of chaff from the winnowing-tray,
Gleaming gold as they drift away;
Wreath of smoke from the funeral pyre,