 | The Writings of Bret Harte |  |
THE BATTLE AUTUMN
The last high wain of toppling sheaves
Goes by—the farm gate swings to rest;
The yellow harvest, and the leaves
The red Fruit-Bearers' lips have pressed,
Lie trophies piled on Nature's breast!
Goes by—the farm gate swings to rest;
The yellow harvest, and the leaves
The red Fruit-Bearers' lips have pressed,
Lie trophies piled on Nature's breast!
But when the clouds hang dark and low,
And bird and bee no longer roam—
And long before the pitying snow
To bury the dead leaves shall come—
We'll call another Harvest Home!
And bird and bee no longer roam—
And long before the pitying snow
To bury the dead leaves shall come—
We'll call another Harvest Home!
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We'll call that Harvest, last and best,
The Warrior-Reaper, reaps by chance,
The broken hope—the shattered crest—
The nerveless hand—the quenchèd glance
That heap the creeping ambulance!
The Warrior-Reaper, reaps by chance,
The broken hope—the shattered crest—
The nerveless hand—the quenchèd glance
That heap the creeping ambulance!
Swing wide your gates—the car rolls on:
O Reaper, are your spoils like these?
Ah, no! when dragon's teeth are sown,
The incense breath of patriot fields
O'ertops the languid scents of Peace!
O Reaper, are your spoils like these?
Ah, no! when dragon's teeth are sown,
The incense breath of patriot fields
O'ertops the languid scents of Peace!
Then still keep keen your hooks and scythe,
Ye wielders of the peaceful flail,
Tho' wintry storms the tree-tops writhe,
And scattered leaves ride on the gale,
Let not the battle harvest fail.
Ye wielders of the peaceful flail,
Tho' wintry storms the tree-tops writhe,
And scattered leaves ride on the gale,
Let not the battle harvest fail.
| The Writings of Bret Harte | |