Littell's Living Age/Volume 132/Issue 1700/Harvest

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For works with similar titles, see Harvest.


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?

All The Year Round.