The collected poems of Arthur Edward Waite | ||
THE REAPER
In simple dreams, I see thy shy blue eyesUpraised to scan thy sphere of earthly work,
Which spreads like fields all ripe with corn and wheat.
The harvest waits, be thou the reaper there;
The barns of God stand empty, fill them thou!
There is a sickle in thy strong right hand—
Reap well, reap all, that when the sheaves are bound
No single grain may lie to rot without
In autumn rain and cold. . . . The days go by;
I see the mellow moon in the starless South
Her magic disc increase. . . . Is thy work done?
Hard hast thou toil'd, thou hast not thought of self;
The priest of labour thou, by toil made priest,
Thy work accomplish'd is thy sacrifice.
The wind begins across the naked fields
To breathe and stir, among a thousand sheaves
It laps and lingers. Lo, the moon hath set!
A faint uncertain light about the East
Spreads slowly round; on thy pale face it falls
And on thy prostrate form; shines keen and blue
The well-used sickle; at thy side it lies;
And thy right arm about the latest sheaf
This night has stiffen'd.
To breathe and stir, among a thousand sheaves
It laps and lingers. Lo, the moon hath set!
A faint uncertain light about the East
Spreads slowly round; on thy pale face it falls
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The well-used sickle; at thy side it lies;
And thy right arm about the latest sheaf
This night has stiffen'd.
Now, the morning breaks;
They bear the harvest in; the barns are closed;
The grain is reckon'd; there is none left out.
Thy spirit voice repeats the festal hymn
In God's great harvest home!
They bear the harvest in; the barns are closed;
The grain is reckon'd; there is none left out.
Thy spirit voice repeats the festal hymn
In God's great harvest home!
The collected poems of Arthur Edward Waite | ||