Harvest Song
A field of golden wheat there grows,
Even to the world's end it goes.
Grind, O mill, keep grinding!
The wind falters in all the land,
The mills on the horizon stand.
Grind, O mill, keep grinding!
The evening sky turns somber red;
Many poor people cry for bread.
Grind, O mill, keep grinding!
The night's womb holds a storm within;
To-morrow shall the task begin.
Grind, O mill, keep grinding!
The storm shall sweep the fields of earth
Until no man cries out for dearth!
Grind, O mill, keep grinding!
Even to the world's end it goes.
Grind, O mill, keep grinding!
The wind falters in all the land,
The mills on the horizon stand.
Grind, O mill, keep grinding!
The evening sky turns somber red;
Many poor people cry for bread.
Grind, O mill, keep grinding!
The night's womb holds a storm within;
To-morrow shall the task begin.
Grind, O mill, keep grinding!
The storm shall sweep the fields of earth
Until no man cries out for dearth!
Grind, O mill, keep grinding!
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