 | Drifted in |  |
HARVEST SONG.
Harvest of old! through gold mines of the peasant,
Delved thy forged sickle—a silvery crescent;
In the cool breeze or the thick sultry weather,
Toiled the strong lad and the maiden together.
Winsomeness into the Eden-curse bringing,
Oft did they charm sober toil with their singing;
Then when the harvest-moon rose in its splendor,
Homeward they fared, oft with words that were tender,
As through the silver-strown song's gallant measures,
Rumbled the wains with their rich golden treasures.
Delved thy forged sickle—a silvery crescent;
25
Toiled the strong lad and the maiden together.
Winsomeness into the Eden-curse bringing,
Oft did they charm sober toil with their singing;
Then when the harvest-moon rose in its splendor,
Homeward they fared, oft with words that were tender,
As through the silver-strown song's gallant measures,
Rumbled the wains with their rich golden treasures.
Harvest less old! still the memory lingers
Of thy broad blade with its tapering fingers;
How as it swung came the tremulous sighing
Of the trim grain-plants so suddenly dying!
How, a rude music that baffles forgetting,
Rang out the song of the scythe in its whetting!
How the glum toiler or jest-loving fellow
Lunched in a shade of their wide camps of yellow,
Gossiping e'en as does oft lovely woman—
Showing that both of the sexes are human!
Of thy broad blade with its tapering fingers;
How as it swung came the tremulous sighing
Of the trim grain-plants so suddenly dying!
How, a rude music that baffles forgetting,
Rang out the song of the scythe in its whetting!
How the glum toiler or jest-loving fellow
Lunched in a shade of their wide camps of yellow,
Gossiping e'en as does oft lovely woman—
Showing that both of the sexes are human!
Harvests today! through the grain-forest sweeping
Comes like a cyclone, an engine of reaping.
Reaper, and gleaner and old-fashioned peasant
Flee from this monster—grim child of the present;
Sickle and scythe, and the flail for the threshing
Fused into wheels, through the meadows go crashing.
All of the harvest-songs vanish before us,
Blended and lost in this grand metal chorus.
Such are the harvests these rushing days fling us:
What will the twentieth century bring us?
Comes like a cyclone, an engine of reaping.
Reaper, and gleaner and old-fashioned peasant
Flee from this monster—grim child of the present;
Sickle and scythe, and the flail for the threshing
Fused into wheels, through the meadows go crashing.
All of the harvest-songs vanish before us,
Blended and lost in this grand metal chorus.
Such are the harvests these rushing days fling us:
What will the twentieth century bring us?
| Drifted in | |