Now that harvest crops are gathered,
Now that autumn days come round,
Gone the martins and the swallows,
Mist on hills and hollow ground.
There's a stillness close to sadness
As the green leaves turn to gold:
Threat of frost and stormy weather,
Autumn's chill and winter's cold.
What harsh winters we remember,
Complicating every task!
Muddy lanes and flooded meadows,
Sheep in snowdrifts, lambs at risk.
Yet the farmer, at his ploughing,
Takes the seasons as they come;
Undeterred by winter's rigour,
Thinks of next year's harvest home.
Lord of every time and season,
In our over-anxious moods
Tell us, as we face tomorrow,
There's no day that is not God's.