 | Early and late poems of Alice and Phoebe Cary |  |
NOONDAY AT HARVEST.
The middle of day, and the middle of June—
No breath of air is blowing,
And the still and sultry heats of noon
Glint hot along the mowing.
No breath of air is blowing,
And the still and sultry heats of noon
Glint hot along the mowing.
Now echoes from the distant horn
Come shrilling through the meadows,
Among the reapers reaping corn,
And the shadows reaping shadows.
Come shrilling through the meadows,
Among the reapers reaping corn,
And the shadows reaping shadows.
Now boldly out of the hills they start—
Now farther fade, and thinner,
And the farmer slowly mounts his cart,
And slowly drives to dinner.
Now farther fade, and thinner,
165
And slowly drives to dinner.
Now out of the stubble's crispy beds,
And down to the marshy hollow,
While tossing their jackets over their heads,
The sunburnt reapers follow,
And down to the marshy hollow,
While tossing their jackets over their heads,
The sunburnt reapers follow,
In hats of straw, and blue shirt-sleeves,
And with herculean shoulders—
A picture they that needs must please
The eyes of all beholders.
And with herculean shoulders—
A picture they that needs must please
The eyes of all beholders.
With head dropt low, the sober gray
Betwixt the ruts steers surely,
And a little girl on a wisp of hay
By her father sits demurely;
Betwixt the ruts steers surely,
And a little girl on a wisp of hay
By her father sits demurely;
Trimming her locks of tawny gold
With leaves of rose and cedar,
While her little brother, ten years old,
Sits sideways on the leader.
With leaves of rose and cedar,
While her little brother, ten years old,
Sits sideways on the leader.
Loose dangle down his dusty feet,
His tongue like a crow is cawing,
And he keeps his balance in his seat
By even-timed see-sawing.
His tongue like a crow is cawing,
And he keeps his balance in his seat
By even-timed see-sawing.
Two cows that pasture in the road,
With never an eye to mind them,
Are stealing mouthfuls out the load
That is coming up behind them.
With never an eye to mind them,
Are stealing mouthfuls out the load
That is coming up behind them.
166
Here, over the steep bank where they pass,
An old gray stone is cropping,
All round about it the tender grass
In luminous fringes dropping.
An old gray stone is cropping,
All round about it the tender grass
In luminous fringes dropping.
And there a water cuts the land
Betwixt the fields and fallows,
And silvery over the silver sand
Lies all in warm, soft shallows.
Betwixt the fields and fallows,
And silvery over the silver sand
Lies all in warm, soft shallows.
The merry horn no longer sounds,
The winds a hush are keeping,
And the echoes whisper back like hounds,
And fall in the hills a-sleeping.
The winds a hush are keeping,
And the echoes whisper back like hounds,
And fall in the hills a-sleeping.
And never a cricket makes his call,
Nor wild bird shows a feather,
As men and children, shadows and all,
Move slowly home together.
Nor wild bird shows a feather,
As men and children, shadows and all,
Move slowly home together.
| Early and late poems of Alice and Phoebe Cary | |