We bore him through the golden land,
One early harvest morn;
The corn stood ripe on either hand--
He knew all about the corn.
How shall the harvest gathered be
Without him standing by?
Without him walking on the lea,
The sky is scarce a sky.
The year's glad work is almost done;
The land is rich in fruit;
Yellow it floats in air and sun--
Earth holds it by the root.
Why should earth hold it for a day
When harvest-time is come?
Death is triumphant o'er decay,
And leads the ripened home.