And it grew holy, the darkish earth.
Through these our hands that did well receive it
and bade it sing ere they had to leave it,
and bade them bless every seed from birth.
And it was meagre and it was grey,
yet gave the corn a fine song for singing
and let the bursting grains hang there swinging
like golden rods that in fields did sway.
The fields of plenty, the sheaves of corn
A rhythm grew, arching now for ever
a sky between earth and hands’ endeavour.
And up above a new star was born.
Each stem that eared shall by us be blessed
The gentle crop we shall now make ready
so we can meet ourselves calm and steady,
our hands secure and our minds at rest.