To form the lately fallen grain in sheaves,
Which throng the field with golden monuments
To Industry and Labor.
Glance again —
Woman upon the field, the sweet and frail!
Like a young lily in a waste of thorns,
So she among the workmen. See! she bends —
And with a graceful, stainless hand collects
The single stalks that else would perish there.
’Tis gentle Ruth, the meek and beautiful,