To the birds you gave melody, the birds gave you a chorus in return. You gave me only words, yet bid me to do much more, and I write a hymn.
You made the air agile and it is nimble in your service. You saddled my hands that I myself should relieve the burden, and meliorate myself for your servitude.
You bought into being the Earth, replenishing its darkness with refulgent fragments.
There you ceased; left me with naught in the dust to erect your Arcadia.
To all things you cede, from me you demand.
The reaping of my life mellows in the sun and rain until I harvest more than you planted, brightening your heart, O Lord of the golden granary.