"Hark! to-morrow, conquering, slay me,
Blest shall be thy toil:
After wrestling, strip me, lay me
Sleeping in the soil.

"Visit oft the place; above me
Root out weeds and grass;
Fast no more; obeying, love me;
Watch what comes to pass."

Waiting through the long day dreary,
Still he hungers on;
Once more wrestling, weak and weary,
Still the fight is won.

Stripped of robes and golden feather,
Buried lies the guest:
Summer's wonder-working weather
Warms his place of rest.

Ever his commands fulfilling,
Mourns his victor friend,
Fearing, with a heart unwilling,
To have known the end.

No! upon the dark mould fallow
Shine bright blades of green;
Rising, spreading, plumes of yellow
O'er their sheaves are seen.