The corn-land is lying in brief, deep rest,
While tempest is sullen, or sunshine blithe;
Sweet is the scent of the farrow refreshed
After the raid of the pitiless scythe.
Now recks it little — come shower or sun —
The harvest is carried, the work is done.
The jubilant summer has yielded its sway,
And August has lavished its gold on the year;
Magic of moonlight, dazzle of day,
One long laughter with never a tear!
Harvest of happiness, gathered and stored,
Winds cannot scatter the ample hoard.
Awe of the mountain, and calm of the lake,
Mirth of the valley, and sigh of the breeze;
Freedom of upland, and moorland, and brake,
Music of forests, of torrents, of seas:
Harvest of memories, golden and gay;
Fear not for dearth in the wintry day.
Smooth out the seaweed, and dream o'er its spells;
Tighten and tie up the salt-laden tresses;
Little ones, lay by the basket and shells,
Put on the shoes again, turn down the dresses.
Harvest of health, in its happiest guise,
Rosy-brown faces and laughter-lit eyes.
Ah! but the woods in their midsummer green!
Bright with the flow of the musical river:
Shading soft blushes with tenderest screen,
Touched with an echo of voices that quiver.
Harvest of love! Is it anything new?
Should Cupid not gather his harvest too?