What have thy loving hands to bestow,
On barren fields none ever pough?
What I observe to be persisting toil,
Immersing seeds in embracive soil.
As plants grow misfortune may impose upon,
Yet thy tenderest care alone shelter on.
Sweat thou spreadest be the nourshing rain,
Penetrates aridity and sooths withered veins.
Paths thou followest prosperous with vivid blooms,
As if bleakness is condemned to its eternal dooms.
I cherish the fruits of thy assiduous deeds,
The flowers of tomorrow shall never cease.
O! If thou dream of roots shall someday from earth free,
Then, the gardener of human minds must thou surely be.