Ripened now, the wheat stands in the golden field
Brittle in the blistering, August sun
Even now the harvest has begun
The end upon us; comes the time of yield.
It was too swift the summer-time of growth
The beginning time, of hoping for success
Of fearing worst, anticipating best
A time to dally, play, a time for sloth
And now, though produce is an hundred fold
Abundant wheat to make abundant bread
Abundant good whereby the poor are fed
Yet short the life, too quick the story told.
So soon itís over cold winds freezing blow
And, silent, we lie under winterís snow.