Harvest

Garner in the golden grain !
He that fares immersed in wheat
Sees a russet mellow main,
Falling from the upland, meet
Lavender horizons warm,
Blent with opaline warm skies ;
Verdure-isles of cloudy form
In descending meet his eyes ;
Round them, like a sea at rest
Glassy sliding up the sand.
Simmers harvest, many a crest
Hither and thither drooping bland,
Weighted every leaning ear
With the treasure of the year.

Garner in the golden grain !
Yonder shining sickle cleaves ;
Bronzy harvestmen sustain
Thwart one another golden sheaves,
Whose luxuriant honours all,
Marrying, seem tawny toil
Of a foaming water- wall.
When wave meets baffled wave's recoil.
Nigh to one of these a child
In a little cart is laid.
Sleeping in the air so mild,
Where a linden with sweet shade
Softens all the radiance.
Within the reaping father's glance.

Garner in the golden grain !
All, aglow upon the hill,
Unforeboding will remain,
Till the sickle gleams, until
All shall placidly resign
Pleasant homely life afield,
Where the youngling flowers twine.
Only now we saw them yield.
Lithe and blithe, and green when wind
Ruffled them to silky waves,
Playing merrily : so we find
Aged pilgrims near the graves,
Mellow and wise, and loving, wait
Swift inevitable fate :
We weep who lose them ; they are still.
While One bears them where He will.