And the good green grass, that delicate miracle the ever-recurring grass.

Toil on heroes! harvest the products!

Not alone on those warlike fields the Mother of All,

With dilated form and lambent eyes watch'd you.

Toil on heroes! toil well! handle the weapons well!

The Mother of All, yet here as ever she watches you.

Well-pleased America thou beholdest,

Over the fields of the West those crawling monsters,

The human-divine inventions, the labour-saving implements;

Beholdest moving in every direction imbued as with life the revolving hay-rakes,

The steam-power reaping-machines and the horse-power machines,

The engines, thrashers of grain and cleaners of grain, well separating the straw, the nimble work of the patent pitchfork,

Beholdest the newer saw-mill, the southern cotton-gin, and the rice-cleanser.

Beneath thy look O Maternal,

With these and else and with their own strong hands the heroes harvest.

All gather and all harvest,

Yet but for thee O Powerful, not a scythe might swing as now in security,

Not a maize-stalk dangle as now its silken tassels in peace.

Under thee only they harvest, even but a wisp of hay under thy great face only,

Harvest the wheat of Ohio, Illinois, Wisconsin, every barbed spear under thee,

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