Classic Poem

For miles along the sunlit lands
We sway in waves of gold,
A yellow sea that past the strands
Has inland rolled.

The sweet dews feed us thro' the night,
The soft winds blow around;
The dayshine gladdens us with light
And stores the ground.

We feed a thousand happy birds,
The field-mice have their share —
Surely to these the reaping swords
Some grains can spare.

The deep joy of the joyous earth,
We feel it throb and thrill;
The sweet return of natural mirth,
Spring's miracle.

All lands rejoice in us, we have
A glory such as kings
Might envy-but our gold we wave
For humbler things.

Our golden harvest is for those
Who strive and toil through life,
Who feel its agonies, its throes,
Its want, its strife.

O'er all the broad lands 'neath the sun,
We spring, we ripen, glow;
The seasons change, the swift days run, —
Again we grow.