[Poems by Cary in] The poets and poetry of the West with biographical and critical notices |
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HARVEST TIME. |
 | [Poems by Cary in] The poets and poetry of the West |  |
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HARVEST TIME.
God's blessing on the reapers! all day long
A quiet sense of peace my spirit fills,
As whistled fragments of untutored song
Blend with the rush of sickles on the hills;
And the blue wild flowers and green brier-leaves
Are brightly tangled with the yellow sheaves.
A quiet sense of peace my spirit fills,
As whistled fragments of untutored song
Blend with the rush of sickles on the hills;
And the blue wild flowers and green brier-leaves
Are brightly tangled with the yellow sheaves.
Where straight and even the new furrows lie,
The cornstalks in their rising beauty stand;
Heaven's loving smile upon man's industry
Makes beautiful with plenty the wide land.
The barns, pressed out with the sweet hay, I see,
And feel how more than good God is to me!
The cornstalks in their rising beauty stand;
Heaven's loving smile upon man's industry
Makes beautiful with plenty the wide land.
The barns, pressed out with the sweet hay, I see,
And feel how more than good God is to me!
In the cool thicket the red robin sings,
And merrily before the mower's scythe
Chirps the green grasshopper, while slowly swings,
In the scarce-swaying air, the willow lithe;
And clouds sail softly through the upper calms,
White as the fleeces of the unshorn lambs.
And merrily before the mower's scythe
Chirps the green grasshopper, while slowly swings,
In the scarce-swaying air, the willow lithe;
And clouds sail softly through the upper calms,
White as the fleeces of the unshorn lambs.
Outstretched beneath the venerable trees,
Conning his long, hard task, the schoolboy lies,
And, like a fickle wooer, the light breeze
Kisses his brow, then, scarcely sighing, flies;
And all about him pinks and lilies stand,
Painting with beauty the wide pasture-land.
Conning his long, hard task, the schoolboy lies,
And, like a fickle wooer, the light breeze
Kisses his brow, then, scarcely sighing, flies;
And all about him pinks and lilies stand,
Painting with beauty the wide pasture-land.
Oh, there are moments when we half forget
The rough, harsh grating of the file of Time;
And I that believe angels come down yet
And walk with us, as in Eden clime,
Binding the heart away from woe and strife,
With leaves of healing from the Tree of Life.
The rough, harsh grating of the file of Time;
And I that believe angels come down yet
And walk with us, as in Eden clime,
Binding the heart away from woe and strife,
With leaves of healing from the Tree of Life.
And they are most unworthy who behold
The bountiful provisions of God's care,
When reapers sing among the harvest-gold,
And the mown meadow scents the quiet air,
And yet who never say, with all their heart,
How good, my Father, oh, how good thou art!
The bountiful provisions of God's care,
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And the mown meadow scents the quiet air,
And yet who never say, with all their heart,
How good, my Father, oh, how good thou art!
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