And now‘ tis time for Harvest. Hark! and lo,
With ringing sound of full melodious horn,
Over yon eastern hill-top all aglow,—
Her sickle gleaming in the golden morn,
Her arm upraised with sheaf of yellow corn,—
She comes elate with light, elastic pace;
Her neck and zone full-clustered vines adorn;
Her saffron locks, fruit-crowned; her luscious grace;
Her round and ripened form; her fair, benignant face.
And now the fields, when suns serenely greet,
A rich and mellow, wanton joy afford:
The russet pease vines, and the burnished wheat
And whiter barley,— hating to be stored,
Guarding with jealous spears their precious hoard,—
The tapering oat-stalk, dangling beads of gold:
In brilliant sea of beauty all outpoured,
With dazzling depth of splendor all untold,
Where fleets of zephyrs skip in fold that follows fold
Like to a dream I had but yesternight,
Of pure, transporting, childlike playfulness,
The presence of a fair-haired, blue-eyed, bright,
Thoughtless and laughing.— Words can not express
In poet phrase the fulness that did bless
Entrancingly my vision. I advanced
Behind to worship. Straight each golden tress
Was ruffled and about my face they danced,
Smoth'ring with beauty, while the maiden gleeful glanced.