Strewing the golden grain,
Sowing for sun or rain;
Shall this suffice that the soul may eat?
There is whiter bread than is made from wheat.

Ah, for the irksome deed
Time plucks up as a weed!
But myrtle and lily and balsam leaf,
How came these in our harvest sheaf?

'Tis our angels softly go
After us down the row,
And the broken hope and the hidden need
Sow in our furrows for beauty seed.