 | The poems of Maria Lowell |  |
3
THE MAIDEN'S HARVEST
There goeth, with the early light,
Across a barren plain,
One who, with face as morning bright,
Singeth, “I come again!
Across a barren plain,
One who, with face as morning bright,
Singeth, “I come again!
“And every grain I scatter free,
An hundred-fold shall yield,
Till waveth like a golden sea
This dark and barren field.”
An hundred-fold shall yield,
Till waveth like a golden sea
This dark and barren field.”
She casteth seed upon the ground
From out her pure white hand,
And little winds steal up around
To bear it through the land.
From out her pure white hand,
And little winds steal up around
To bear it through the land.
She strikes her harp, she sings her song;
She sings so loud and clear,
“Arise! arise! ye sleeping throng,
And bud and blossom here!”
She sings so loud and clear,
“Arise! arise! ye sleeping throng,
And bud and blossom here!”
4
When o'er the hills she passed away,
The Spring remembered her,
And came, with sun and air of May,
The barren earth to stir.
The Spring remembered her,
And came, with sun and air of May,
The barren earth to stir.
And dropping dew the spot did love,
And lingered there till noon;
And winds and rains moved on above
In softly-changing tune.
And lingered there till noon;
And winds and rains moved on above
In softly-changing tune.
So, when the Autumn cometh round,
The golden heads bend low,—
And near and nearer to the ground
Their royal beard doth flow.
The golden heads bend low,—
And near and nearer to the ground
Their royal beard doth flow.
The poor rejoice; in throngs they come
To reap the dropping grain;—
Their voices rise in busy hum:
“Who, who hath sowed the plain?
To reap the dropping grain;—
Their voices rise in busy hum:
“Who, who hath sowed the plain?
“And who hath wrought such bounteous cheer
Where all before was dead?”
They bless the unseen Giver dear
Who gave this daily bread.
Where all before was dead?”
They bless the unseen Giver dear
Who gave this daily bread.
5
With harp in hand, a maiden bright
Passed slowly by the throng,
With face as fair as sunset light
The maiden sang her song.
Passed slowly by the throng,
With face as fair as sunset light
The maiden sang her song.
“In morning-time I sowed this plain,
Blest may the evening be,
Which gives back every little grain
An hundred-fold to me!”
Blest may the evening be,
Which gives back every little grain
An hundred-fold to me!”
| The poems of Maria Lowell | |