Now from heaven’s heights the dear sun looks down. The earth a plenteous draught has drunk. On their corn-fields and gardens, and meadows green, the rustic folk cannot gaze enough. For the grace of God these rustic folk have waited long with trembling and prayer. Together with the spring there have come to life the secret thoughts of their quiet minds. Thought the first: To pour into sacks the grain in the bins, and to set their carts in order. Thought the second: Forth from the village by night to drive their line of carts. Thought the third----When of this they thought, to God the Lord arose the prayers. With early dawn have they gone afield. There in handfuls heaped each scatters the grain, furrows the soil with the ploughshare’s blade, or rips it across with the harrow’s tooth.