How peacefully the broad and golden moon

Comes up to gaze upon the reaper's toil!

That they who own the land for many a mile,

May bless her beams, and they who take the boon

Of scatter'd ears; Oh! beautiful! how soon

The dusk is turn'd to silver without soil,

Which makes the fair sheaves fairer than at noon,

And guides the gleaner to his slender spoil;

So, to our souls, the LORD of love and might

Sends harvest-hours, when daylight disappears;

When age and sorrow, like a coming night,

Darken our field of work with doubts and fears,

He times the presence of His heavenly light

To rise up softly o'er our silver hairs.