Harvest Time, a Poem

HARVEST TIME.

BY SARAH E. PEARSON.

Stoop, stoop, stoop, over the cool, damp furrow, The morning air is wondrous sweet; The heart is light, and hands are fleet To hasten the task e'er the sun's full heat Beats upon the furrow. No time to listen to cat-birds call To each other over the garden wall; No time to watch the oak leaves fall. Or crimson maples shiver, Or waves of ether, clear and blue, like waves of water quiver.

Plod, plod, plod, and turn the mellow furrow. With clanking harness and shining share, The patient plow-horse treads with care. And the fallowing plow lays the harvest bare. In the depths of the long, straight furrow. And the pickers follow in friendly chase, Their pails resounding in eager race, A bantering smile on the winner's face As he empties his load of treasure. And hastes again to the scene of fray, and fills again his measure.

Think, think, think, and plod again the furrow. If hearts are happy, and thoughts are glad. Or hearts and thoughts are heavy and sad, Still hands must fly, though brain goes mad,

For a moment, with joy or sorrow. Till the mill-whistle signals the noonday hour.

88 IMPROVEMENT ERA.

And lunch is spread in a shady bower Of trees on the edge of the field, wher6 showers Of frost-stained leaves are falling. And the cottage roofs in the distance sleep, and the drowsy kine are calling.

through the the rough, brown furrow. Toil, toil, toil,

With aching back, and throbbing head. With blistered hands, and lagging tread, Through the livelong day, that we may have bread. Toil through the dusty furrow. Till the shadows fall like a filmy vail

And shroud the outlines of hill and dale; And the forest echoes the nightengale; And evening winds are sighing. Then homeward wend our weary way with the long day's dying.

And the prayer that we offer when day has fled. To the Lord of the harvest, holy: "When the grain from the tares is forever won; When the last great harvest of life is done; And Thou gather Thy sheaves at set of sun, And seal them up to Thy glory. Oh, gather us. Father, unto Thy breast Where the toiler has earned such blissful rest; Has learned to appreciate the blest Reward for righteous striving; And the significance of labor won, and sacredness of living."