 | [Poems by Woolson in] Constance Fenimore Woolson |  |
428
CORNFIELDS.
In the broad Ohio lowlands, in the sun's white heat,
In the shadowless stillness of the clear August noon,
We feel the full earth's pulses hot and strong beneath our feet,
The ripeness and the richness of their rhythmical beat,
Saying, “Ripen, corn; ripen, corn; green fields, ripen mellow”
Saying, “Ripen, corn; ripen, corn; green ears, ripen yellow,
For the harvest comes soon.”
In the shadowless stillness of the clear August noon,
We feel the full earth's pulses hot and strong beneath our feet,
The ripeness and the richness of their rhythmical beat,
Saying, “Ripen, corn; ripen, corn; green fields, ripen mellow”
Saying, “Ripen, corn; ripen, corn; green ears, ripen yellow,
For the harvest comes soon.”
In the broad Ohio lowlands thick the green ranks grow,
In straight unbroken furrows to the east, to the west,
The tree-tops in the distance are the only hills they know,
So they proudly lift their tasselled heads, whispering low,
Saying, “Rustle, leaves; rustle, leaves; hear the furrows' voices;”
Saying, “Rustle, leaves; rustle, leaves; all the field rejoices,
For our lot is the best.”
In straight unbroken furrows to the east, to the west,
The tree-tops in the distance are the only hills they know,
So they proudly lift their tasselled heads, whispering low,
Saying, “Rustle, leaves; rustle, leaves; hear the furrows' voices;”
Saying, “Rustle, leaves; rustle, leaves; all the field rejoices,
For our lot is the best.”
They know not of the shadow where the cool mountains stand;
They know not of the brook with the dark rocks at its mouth;
They only know the river and its level banks of sand—
They only know the river moving slow through the land,
Saying, “Float, lilies; float, lilies; August's gold-crowned daughters;”
Saying, “Float, lilies; float, lilies; on my sun-warmed waters
I bear you toward the South.”
They know not of the brook with the dark rocks at its mouth;
They only know the river and its level banks of sand—
They only know the river moving slow through the land,
Saying, “Float, lilies; float, lilies; August's gold-crowned daughters;”
Saying, “Float, lilies; float, lilies; on my sun-warmed waters
I bear you toward the South.”
They know the mellow richness of the brown fervid earth;
They feel the prisoned dew-drops caught in the misty morn;
They think of the soft rain-clouds, of their early spring-time birth,
And they sing of the harvest in their ripe lusty mirth,
Saying, “Shine, heavens; shine, heavens; pour thy splendour on us;”
Saying “Shine, heavens; shine, heavens; send down now upon us
The glory of the corn.”
They feel the prisoned dew-drops caught in the misty morn;
They think of the soft rain-clouds, of their early spring-time birth,
And they sing of the harvest in their ripe lusty mirth,
Saying, “Shine, heavens; shine, heavens; pour thy splendour on us;”
Saying “Shine, heavens; shine, heavens; send down now upon us
The glory of the corn.”
Constance Fenimore Woolson.
| [Poems by Woolson in] Constance Fenimore Woolson | |