The Last Sweep of the Scythe

The year had rush'd along through May and June,
And my own natal month, her goal to win;
And now the fruitful sheaves were coming in;
The glow of August made the barren moon
As mellow as the corn-lands. One bright field,
Which to the southward sloped, enhancing all
The beauty of the view, was last to fall
Before the sweeping scythe. Its doom was seal'd;
I grieved to think how fleet and fugitive
Are all our joys, how near to change or harm:
And how that azure distance would outlive
Its golden foreground, losing half its charm!
But I remember'd, ere I look'd again,
That fallen corn is bread, and many a loss true gain.