In the rustle of the cornfields,
And the plowman's weary tread,
And the fingers of the tassels
Raised beseechingly o'er head
In them all a thousand voices
Whisper in the listening ear,
"Toil will ne'er possess its products
Until Equity is here."
					
In the broad and waving wheatfields,
A million heads may bow,
And in sunlight gold may glitter,
Promised fruitage of the plow;
Still the passing breezes whisper
In the anxious listening ear,
"Toil's just reward will linger
Until Equity is here."
					
So with orchard's blushing treasure,
And with meadow's wealth of hay,
And the lowing in the pastures,
And the garden's rich array
All proclaim the same sad warning,
Toil in vain will seek its own,
For each season's store will vanish
Until Equity shall come.