As the corn of Thine occident field:
O Yielder of All, can America worthily thank Thee till such be her yield?
In the mellowing light
Of the goldenest days that precede the gray days of the year,
We sing Thee our harvesting song and we pray Thee to hear,
In the midst of Thy might:
Labor is given to us,
Let us give thanks!
Power worketh through us,
Let us give thanks!