"The fieldmouse builds her garner under ground.

I challenge Winter for my enemy; A most insatiate, miserable carl, That to fill up his garners to the brim Cares not how he endamageth the earth, What poverty he makes it to endure!

But worthy Age to ripened fruit shall bring The glorious blooming of its hopeful spring, And pile the garners of immortal Truth With sheaves of golden grain, To sow the world again, And fill the eager wants of the New Age's youth.

No thought hadst thou, so calm and light, Of war or battle plain, But on thy broad fields, waving bright, Didst mow the golden grain, With clashing sickles, wreaths of corn, Thy sheaves didst garner in, When, hark!