Thro' Farmer Gale's wide fields I passed
Just yestereve;
My week of holiday was spent,
And idly on the stile I leant,
Taking my leave
Of all the fair and smiling plain,
Wood, vale, and hill,
And all the homely household band
(The warm grasp of each kindly hand
Bides with me still);
And I was sad. The stricken grain
Around me lay;
I could but think of silent glade —
Of buds and blossoms lowly laid
That harvest day.
"And this is all!" I sadly said,
"These withered leaves —
This gathered grain! Spring's hours of bliss
And summer's glory turn to this —
Some yellow sheaves!"
Then Farmer Gale — that good old man,
So simply wise —
Who overheard, and quickly turned,
Said, while a spark of anger burned
In his grey eyes,
"Lad, thou art town-bred, knowing nought
Whereof thou pratest!
For, be the flower as fair as May,
The fruit it yields in harvest day
Is still the greatest!
"And thou — thy spring shall quickly pass;
Fast fall the leaves
From life's frail tree. In harvest day
See that before thy Lord thou lay
Some yellow sheaves."
He went his way; I mine; and now
I hear the flow
Of busy life in crowded street —
Of eager voices, hurrying feet,
That come and go.
Yet e'en while flashing factory looms
My hands engage,
I see that far-off upland plain —
Its long, long rows of gathered grain,
Its rustic sage,
And hear them say, "Let pleasures fair,
And passions vain,
And youthful follies fade and die;
But all good deeds, pure thoughts and high,
Like golden grain,
"Be gathered still." Blest harvest store,
That only grows
In hearts besprinkled with the blood
That evermore — a sacred flood —
From Calvary flows!
Lord, when thou callest, when this world
My spirit leaves,
Then to thy feet, oh, let me come,
Bringing, in joyful harvest-home,
Some yellow sheaves!