Across the cloud-white fields of earth
The vintage bells of Science, ring;
The golden hour of Truth is here,
And hope is ripe for harvesting.
With joy we bear the sheaves of Mind,
Our thoughts fixed constant to Life's goal;
The laborers will soon be more—
To garner in the wealth of Soul.
Take up the curving scythe of Love,
The promised harvest has begun!
And hearts that murmured in the night
Now work with laughter in the sun.
To Spirit's teeming harvest home
The wanderer shall make his way,
And he who sowed through barren years
Shall be the reaper of today.
