Spreading thy branches so wide and so free?
Why hast thou many years wrought in thy season?
What is the end of thy work and of thee?
“Earth, mother earth, I have wrought for and toiled for,
Life still bestows her beneficent breast;
When for her I shall garner up treasures no longer,
Back shall I sink to her bosom to rest.”
What dost thou work for, sweet flower of the wild-wood,
Spreading thy garlands of beauty and bloom?
Why dost thou toil to bring buds into blossom?