The day her dusty journey's run;
The laborers fill the homeward path;
The world, worn out by toil and sun,
In dewy mist will take a bath.

The birds onto their nests will fly;
The crickets to the hearthplace creep;
The worldly cares are laid aside,
And man will take a bath in sleep.

The wheat that bent in glowing sun,
When nature bathes it, will arise;
The withered cornblades will unroll,
And all things new will greet our eyes.
'The day her dusty journey's run;
The laborers fill the homeward path.'