THE REAPER
In simple dreams, I see thy shy blue eyes
Upraised to scan thy sphere of earthly work,
Which spreads like fields all ripe with corn and wheat.
The harvest waits, be thou the reaper there;
The barns of God stand empty, fill them thou!
There is a sickle in thy strong right hand—
Reap well, reap all, that when the sheaves are bound
No single grain may lie to rot without
In autumn rain and cold. . . . The days go by;
I see the mellow moon in the starless South
Her magic disc increase. . . . Is thy work done?
Hard hast thou toil'd, thou hast not thought of self;
The priest of labour thou, by toil made priest,
Thy work accomplish'd is thy sacrifice.
The wind begins across the naked fields
To breathe and stir, among a thousand sheaves
It laps and lingers. Lo, the moon hath set!
A faint uncertain light about the East
Spreads slowly round; on thy pale face it falls
And on thy prostrate form; shines keen and blue
The well-used sickle; at thy side it lies;
And thy right arm about the latest sheaf
This night has stiffen'd.
Now, the morning breaks;
They bear the harvest in; the barns are closed;
The grain is reckon'd; there is none left out.
Thy spirit voice repeats the festal hymn
In God's great harvest home!
