At rest amid the flush of golden corn,
When rest is short and sweet;
At rest from toil begun at early morn
By willing hands and feet.
Above, the sky, in all its wide expanse,
Laughs with its deepest blue,
And stray winds waking upward from their trance,
Scarce stir a stalk or two.
How sweet such rest is to each working one!
That mother sitting there
Suckles a tender babe but late begun
This life so strange and fair.
And he, the father, looking down can feel
A new strength in his arm,
And life and toil in softer tones reveal
A deeper sacred charm.
O weary ones that rise at labour's call!
Toil on in hope and pain;
A sure rest cometh when at evenfall
Death stoops to reap his grain.