Shine sweet as the sheaves he builds.
’Mid cloud and dew of the early spring,
In good hope he buried the grain;
And soon in green blades with the soft summer breeze
It wavered along the plain.
The bright warm close of the golden year,
Made his ample reward complete;
As it swell’d out each grain and made ripe each ear,
And all for the sickle meet.
Happy art thou in thy fruitful work,