Harvest

Not now the rejoicing face of summer glowsIn splendour to a blue and splendid sky:For now hath died each lingering wild roseOff tangled river banks: and autumn showsFields of red corn, that on the downside lieBeneath a gentle mist, a golden haze.So shrouded, the red cornlands take an airTrembling with warm wind: sickle-girt, forth fareHarvesting hinds, with swift arms brown and bare;Revering well toil's venerable ways.

Most golden music is among the corn,Played by the winds wavering over it:A murmuring sound, as when against the morn,Orient upon calm seas, their noise is borneInnumerably rippling and sunlit.Most golden music is in either tide:And this of radiant corn, before it fall,Wills not that summer die unmusical,By no rich surge of murmurs glorified:Nay! the fields rock and rustle, sounding allPraise of the fruitful earth on every side.

Good, through the yellow fields to ponder long:Good, long to meditate the stilly sight.Afar shone down a brazen sunlight strong,Over the harvested hillside, alongThe laboured meadows, burning with great light:The air trembled with overflow of heatIn the low valley, where no movement wasOf soft-blown wind, ruffling the scytheless grassThick-growing by the waters, cool and sweet:No swing of boughs; there were no airs to passCaressing them: all winds failed, when all wheat,

All fair crops murmuring their soft acclaim,Fell, golden rank on golden rank, and layRuddily heaped along the earth: the flameOf delicate poppies, rich and frail, becameWan dying weed; convolvulus, astrayOut from its hedgerows far into the field,In clinging coils of leaf and tender bloom,Shared with the stalks it clung and clasped, their doom.So went the work: so gave the ripened wealdIts fruits and pleasant flowers; and made a room,Wherein fresh winds might wave a fresh year's yield.