All the wealth of all the year,
Scattered by the wayside here.
But oh, little sister of mine in the shadowy places,
Where the wheel turns and the small young fingers ply,
I cannot forget that this is yours, too, to inherit—
The open fields and the streams, and the clear blue sky.
Stirring sap and quickening sod—
Miracles revealing God:
Prophets of the fatherhood,
Speaking from the field and wood.