 | Drifted in |  |
When once again in the shrieking night,
My late seat-partner was gone from sight,
I mused of a lately vanished week,
When some of the lands now white and bleak,
Were harvested not by ice-edged cold,
But blades that garnered the wheat's pure gold.
My late seat-partner was gone from sight,
I mused of a lately vanished week,
When some of the lands now white and bleak,
Were harvested not by ice-edged cold,
But blades that garnered the wheat's pure gold.
| Drifted in | |