The sickle is dulled of the reaping and the threshing-floor is bare;
The dust of night’s in the air;
The peace of the weary is ours:
All day we have taken the fruit and the grain and the seeds of the flowers.

The ev’ning is chill,
It is good now to gather in peace by the flames of the fire.
We have done now the deed that we did for your need and desire:
We have wrought our will.

And now for the boon of abundance and golden increase,
And immurèd peace,
Shall we thank our God?
Bethink us, amid His indulgence, His terrible rod?

Shall we be as the maple and oak,
Strew the earth with our gold, giving only bare boughs to the sky?
Nay, the pine stayeth green while the Winter growls sullenly by,
And doth not revoke

For soft days or stern days the pledge of its constancy.
Shall we not be
Also the same through all days,
Giving thanks when the batle breaks on us, in toil giving praise?

O Father who saw at the dawn,
That the folly of Pride would be the lush weed of our sin,
There is better than that in our hearts, O enter therein,
A light burneth, though wan

And weak be the flame, yet it floweth, our Humilty!
Ah, how can it be
Trimmed o’ the wick,
And replenished with oil to burn brightly and golden and quick?

For deep in our hearts
We wish to be thankful through lean years and fat without change,
Knowing that here Thou hast set for the spirit a range:
We would play well our parts,

Making American throb with the building of souls and the glory of good;
Yea, and we would,
And before the last Autumn we will
Build a temple from ocean to ocean where deeds never still

Melodiously shall proclaim
Thanksgiving forever that Thou hast set here to our hand
So wondrous a mystical harvest, that Thou dost demand
Sheaves bound in Thy name,

Yea, supersubstantial sheaves of strong souls that have grown
Fain to be known
As the corn of Thine occident field:
O Yielder of All, can Amierca worthily thank Thee till such be her yield?

In the mellowing light
Of the goldenest days that precede the gray days of the year,
We sing Thee our harvesting song and we pray Thee to hear,
In the mist of Thy might:

Labor is given to us,
     Let us give thanks,
Power worketh through us,
     Let us give thanks!
Not for what we have
(So might speak a slave),
Not for the garnering,
Gratefully we sing,
But for the mighty thing
We must do, travailing!
For our task and for our strength;
For the journey and its length;
For our dauntless eagerness;
For our humbling weariness;
For these, for these, O Father,
     Let us give thanks!
For these, O Mighty Father,
     Take Thou our thanks!