To Labor’s matin chant intoned so clear,
As the great towers builded by Amphion
Rose to the lyre’s strong throbbing, tier on tier.
Give us, O Child, the gifts we lack full sorely—
Give us your heritage of art and song,
The soul that in your fathers grew, sun-nourished,
Soaring above its poverty and wrong.
Of singing vintagers and laughing reapers
Teach us your happy, sunland way, nor we
In blind greed longer lay a stern proscription