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