The meadows green relieve the eye
And echo with the gladsome cry
Of shepherds and their sheep.
6 The never-weary tribe of bees,
Now here, now there in blossoming trees,
Find booty far and near;
The sturdy juices of the vine,
For sweetness and for strength combine,
The pilgrim’s toil to cheer.
7 The wheat lifts rank its ears of gold