And follow the course of the wandering vine,
Whether it trail on the earth supine,
Or round the aspiring tree-top twine,
And reach for a stage still higher.
As each for the good of the whole is bent,
And stores up its treasures for all,
We hope for an evening with heart's content,
For the winter of life without lament
That summer is gone, with its hours mis-spent,
And the harvest is past recall.