Be Welcome, Year! With Corn And Sickle Come; Make Poor The Body, But Make Rich The Heart: What Man That Bears His Sheaves, Gold-Nodding, Home, Will Heed The Paint Rubbed From His Groaning Cart! Nor Leave Behind Thy Fears And Holy Shames, Thy Sorrows On The Horizon Hanging Low-- Gray Gathered Fuel For The Sunset-Flames When Joyous In Death'S Harvest-Home We Go.