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��THE REAPERS
Red are the hands of the Reapers,
And the harvest is so white ! Red are the feet that are treading
The threshing floors by night : And, on the young brows, dripping
As with the dews of morn. Deep rose-red are the woundings.
Like scars of a crown of thorn.
Tired, so many, with reaping, —
Tired with treading the grain. Still they lie, in their sleeping.
Low in the Valley of Pain, — Never again to be quaflSng
The joy of life, like wine ; Never again to be laughing
In Youth's glad hour divine.
Birds shall sing in the branches. Children dance by the shore ;
But they who shared the red reaping Shall come back never more.
�� �
