Heap high the farmer's wintry hoard!
Heap high the golden corn !
No richer gift has Autumn poured
From out her lavish horn !
Let other lands, exulting, glean
The apple from the pine,
The orange from its glossy green,
The cluster from the vine ;
We better love the hardy gift
Our rugged vales bestow,
To cheer us when the storm shall drift
Our harvest-fields with snow.
Through vales of grass and meads of flowers
Our ploughs their furrows made,
While on the hills the sun and showers
Of changeful April played.
We dropped the seed o'er hill and plain,
Beneath t h e sun of May,
And frightened from our sprouting grain
The robber crows away.
All through the long, bright days of June
Its leaves grew green and fair,
And waved in hot midsummer's noon
I t s soft and yellow hair.
And now, with autumns moonlit eves,
Its harvest - time has come,
We pluck away the frosted leaves,
And bear the treasure home.
There, richer than the fabled gift
Apollo showered of old,
Fair hands the broken grain shall sift,
And knead its meal of gold.
