 | The Writings of Bret Harte |  |
A FABLE FOR THE TIMES
I lay on my back in the scented grass,
Drowned in the odors that swept the plain,
Watching the reaper's sickle pass
Like summer lightning amidst the grain;
Drowned in the odors that swept the plain,
Watching the reaper's sickle pass
Like summer lightning amidst the grain;
And I said, “'T is certain that Peace is sweet,
And War is cruel and useless toil—
And better the reaper of honest wheat
Than the soldier laden with sanguine spoil.”
And War is cruel and useless toil—
And better the reaper of honest wheat
Than the soldier laden with sanguine spoil.”
But lo, as I spake, in the upper sky,
I heard the tumult of mimic war,
And a troop of swallows came whistling by,
In chase of a hawk that flew before—
I heard the tumult of mimic war,
And a troop of swallows came whistling by,
In chase of a hawk that flew before—
Till with baffled wing and beaten crest,
That gray guerrilla of raid and wrong,
Flew off—and back to each ransomed nest,
The heroes came in exultant song.
That gray guerrilla of raid and wrong,
Flew off—and back to each ransomed nest,
The heroes came in exultant song.
But one, as he neared me, dropped his wing
With a weak, uncertain, tremulous beat,
As round and round in a narrowing ring,
His circuit he 'd double and then repeat—
With a weak, uncertain, tremulous beat,
As round and round in a narrowing ring,
His circuit he 'd double and then repeat—
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Till at length he dropped, like lead, in the brake,
And I sprang to my feet, but found, alas,
He was charmed by a meditative snake
That lay near me in the scented grass.
And I sprang to my feet, but found, alas,
He was charmed by a meditative snake
That lay near me in the scented grass.
| The Writings of Bret Harte | |