Who hath ripened the fruits into golden and red?
Who hath grown in the valleys our treasures of bread,
That the owner might heap, and the stranger might glean
For the days when the cold of the winter is keen?
Harvest home!
Let us chant, etc.
For the smile of the sunshine, again and again,
For the dew on the garden, the showers on the plain,
For the year, with its hope and its promise that end,
Crowned with plenty and peace, let thanksgiving ascend,