HARVEST-MOON: 1914Over the twilight field,The overflowing field,—Over the glimmering field,And bleeding furrows with their sodden yieldOf sheaves that still did writhe,After the scythe;The teeming field and darkly overstrewnWith all the garnered fulness of that noon—Two looked upon each other.One was a Woman men called their mother;And one, the Harvest-Moon.And one, the Harvest-Moon,Who stood, who gazedOn those unquiet gleanings where they bled;Till the lone Woman said:“But we were crazed…We should laugh now together, I and you,We two.You, for your dreaming it was worthA star’s while to look on and light the Earth;And I, forever telling to my mind,Glory it was, and gladness, to give birthTo humankind!Yes, I, that ever thought it not amissTo give the breath to men,For men to slay again:Lording it over anguish but to giveMy life that men might liveFor this.You will be laughing now, rememberingI called you once Dead World, and barren thing,Yes, so we named you then,You, far more wiseThan to give life to men.”Over the field, that thereGave back the skiesA shattered upward stareFrom blank white eyes,—Striving awhile, through many a bleeding duneOf throbbing clay, but dumb and quiet soon,She looked; and went her way—The Harvest-Moon.JOSEPHINE PRESTON PEAODY
Over the twilight field,The overflowing field,—Over the glimmering field,And bleeding furrows with their sodden yieldOf sheaves that still did writhe,After the scythe;The teeming field and darkly overstrewnWith all the garnered fulness of that noon—Two looked upon each other.One was a Woman men called their mother;And one, the Harvest-Moon.And one, the Harvest-Moon,Who stood, who gazedOn those unquiet gleanings where they bled;Till the lone Woman said:“But we were crazed…We should laugh now together, I and you,We two.You, for your dreaming it was worthA star’s while to look on and light the Earth;And I, forever telling to my mind,Glory it was, and gladness, to give birthTo humankind!Yes, I, that ever thought it not amissTo give the breath to men,For men to slay again:Lording it over anguish but to giveMy life that men might liveFor this.You will be laughing now, rememberingI called you once Dead World, and barren thing,Yes, so we named you then,You, far more wiseThan to give life to men.”Over the field, that thereGave back the skiesA shattered upward stareFrom blank white eyes,—Striving awhile, through many a bleeding duneOf throbbing clay, but dumb and quiet soon,She looked; and went her way—The Harvest-Moon.
JOSEPHINE PRESTON PEAODY