I

The maples redden in the sun;

In autumn gold the beeches stand;

Rest, faithful plough, thy work is done

Upon the teeming land.

Bordered with trees whose gay leaves fly

On every breath that sweeps the sky,

The fresh dark acres furrowed lie,

And ask the sower’s hand.

Loose the tired steer and let him go

To pasture where the gentians blow,

And we, who till the grateful ground,

Fling we the golden shower around.