THE HARVEST.
Sun on the mountain,Shade in the valley,Ripple and lightnessLeaping along the world,Sun, like a gold swordPlucked from the scabbard,Striking the wheat-fields,Splendid and lusty,Close-standing, full-headed,Toppling with plenty;Shade, like a bucklerKindly and ample,Sweeping the wheat-fieldsDarkening and tossing;There on the world-rimWinds break and gatherHeaping the mistFor the pyre of the sunset;And still as a shadow,In the dim westward,A cloud sloop of amethystMoored to the worldWith cables of rain.Acres of gold wheatStir in the sunshine,Rounding the hill-top,Crested with plenty,Filling the valley,Brimmed with abundance;Wind in the wheat-fieldEddying and settling,Swaying it, sweeping it,Lifting the rich heads,Tossing them soothingly;Twinkle and shimmerThe lights and the shadowings,Nimble as moonlightAstir in the mere.Laden with odorsOf peace and of plenty,Soft comes the windFrom the ranks of the wheat-field,Bearing a promiseOf harvest and sickle-time,Opulent threshing-floorsDusty and dimWith the whirl of the flail,And wagons of bread,Down-laden and lumberingThrough the gateways of cities.When will the reapersStrike in their sickles,Bending and grasping,Shearing and spreading;When will the gleanersSearching the stubbleTake the last wheat-headsHome in their arms?Ask not the question!—Something tremendousMoves to the answer.Hunger and povertyHeaped like the oceanWelters and mutters,Hold back the sickles!Millions of childrenBorn to their terribleAncestral hunger,Starved in their mothers’ womb,Starved at the nipple, cry,—Ours is the harvest!Millions of womenLearned in the tragicalSecrets of poverty,Sweated and beaten, cry,—Hold back the sickles!Millions of menWith a vestige of manhood,Wild-eyed and gaunt-throated,Shout with a leonineAccent of anger,Leave us the wheat-fields!When will the reapersStrike in their sickles?Ask not the question;Something tremendousMoves to the answer.Long have they sharpenedTheir fiery, impetuousSickles of carnage,Welded them æonsAgo in the mountainsOf suffering and anguish;Hearts were their hammersBlood was their fire,Sorrow their anvil,(Trusty the sicklesTempered with tears;)Time they had plenty—Harvests and harvestsPassed them in agony,Only a half-filledEar for their lot;Man that had takenGod for a masterMade him a law,Mocked him and cursed him,Set up this hunger,Called it necessity,Put in the blameless mouthJudas’s language:The poor ye have with youAlway, unending.But up from the impotentAnguish of children,Up from the laborFruitless, unmeaning,Of millions of mothers,Hugely necessitous,Grew by a just lawStern and implacable,Art born of poverty,The making of sicklesMeet for the harvest.And now to the wheat-fieldsCome the weird reapersArmed with their sickles,Whipping them keenlyIn the fresh-air fields,Wild with the joy of them,Finding them trusty,Hilted with teen.Swarming like ants,The Idea for captain,No banners, no bugles,Only a terribleGround-bass of gatheringTempest and fury,Only a tossingOf arms and of garments;Sexless and featureless,(Only the childrenDifferent among them,Crawling between their feet,Borne on their shoulders;)Rolling their shaggy headsWild with the unheard-ofDrug of the sunshine;Tears that had eatenThe half of their eyelidsDry on their cheeks;Blood in their stiffened hairClouted and darkened;Down in their cavern heartsHunger the tiger,Leaping, exulting;Sighs that had choked themBurst into triumphing;On they come, Victory!Up to the wheat-fields,Dreamed of in visionsBred by the hunger,Seen for the first timeSplendid and golden;On they come fluctuant,Seething and breaking,Weltering like fireIn the pit of the earthquake,Bursting in heapsWith the sudden intractableLust of the hunger:Then when they see them—The miles of the harvestWhite in the sunshine,Rushing and stumbling,With the mighty and clamorousCry of a peopleStarved from creation,Hurl themselves onward,Deep in the wheat-fields,Weeping like children,After ages and ages,Back at the breastsOf their mother the earth.Night in the valley,Gloom on the mountain,Wind in the wheat,Far to the southwardThe flutter of lightning,The shudder of thunder;But high at the zenith,A cluster of starsGlimmers and throbsIn the grasp of the midnight,Steady and absolute,Ancient and sure.
Sun on the mountain,Shade in the valley,Ripple and lightnessLeaping along the world,Sun, like a gold swordPlucked from the scabbard,Striking the wheat-fields,Splendid and lusty,Close-standing, full-headed,Toppling with plenty;Shade, like a bucklerKindly and ample,Sweeping the wheat-fieldsDarkening and tossing;There on the world-rimWinds break and gatherHeaping the mistFor the pyre of the sunset;And still as a shadow,In the dim westward,A cloud sloop of amethystMoored to the worldWith cables of rain.Acres of gold wheatStir in the sunshine,Rounding the hill-top,Crested with plenty,Filling the valley,Brimmed with abundance;Wind in the wheat-fieldEddying and settling,Swaying it, sweeping it,Lifting the rich heads,Tossing them soothingly;Twinkle and shimmerThe lights and the shadowings,Nimble as moonlightAstir in the mere.Laden with odorsOf peace and of plenty,Soft comes the windFrom the ranks of the wheat-field,Bearing a promiseOf harvest and sickle-time,Opulent threshing-floorsDusty and dimWith the whirl of the flail,And wagons of bread,Down-laden and lumberingThrough the gateways of cities.When will the reapersStrike in their sickles,Bending and grasping,Shearing and spreading;When will the gleanersSearching the stubbleTake the last wheat-headsHome in their arms?Ask not the question!—Something tremendousMoves to the answer.Hunger and povertyHeaped like the oceanWelters and mutters,Hold back the sickles!Millions of childrenBorn to their terribleAncestral hunger,Starved in their mothers’ womb,Starved at the nipple, cry,—Ours is the harvest!Millions of womenLearned in the tragicalSecrets of poverty,Sweated and beaten, cry,—Hold back the sickles!Millions of menWith a vestige of manhood,Wild-eyed and gaunt-throated,Shout with a leonineAccent of anger,Leave us the wheat-fields!When will the reapersStrike in their sickles?Ask not the question;Something tremendousMoves to the answer.Long have they sharpenedTheir fiery, impetuousSickles of carnage,Welded them æonsAgo in the mountainsOf suffering and anguish;Hearts were their hammersBlood was their fire,Sorrow their anvil,(Trusty the sicklesTempered with tears;)Time they had plenty—Harvests and harvestsPassed them in agony,Only a half-filledEar for their lot;Man that had takenGod for a masterMade him a law,Mocked him and cursed him,Set up this hunger,Called it necessity,Put in the blameless mouthJudas’s language:The poor ye have with youAlway, unending.But up from the impotentAnguish of children,Up from the laborFruitless, unmeaning,Of millions of mothers,Hugely necessitous,Grew by a just lawStern and implacable,Art born of poverty,The making of sicklesMeet for the harvest.And now to the wheat-fieldsCome the weird reapersArmed with their sickles,Whipping them keenlyIn the fresh-air fields,Wild with the joy of them,Finding them trusty,Hilted with teen.Swarming like ants,The Idea for captain,No banners, no bugles,Only a terribleGround-bass of gatheringTempest and fury,Only a tossingOf arms and of garments;Sexless and featureless,(Only the childrenDifferent among them,Crawling between their feet,Borne on their shoulders;)Rolling their shaggy headsWild with the unheard-ofDrug of the sunshine;Tears that had eatenThe half of their eyelidsDry on their cheeks;Blood in their stiffened hairClouted and darkened;Down in their cavern heartsHunger the tiger,Leaping, exulting;Sighs that had choked themBurst into triumphing;On they come, Victory!Up to the wheat-fields,Dreamed of in visionsBred by the hunger,Seen for the first timeSplendid and golden;On they come fluctuant,Seething and breaking,Weltering like fireIn the pit of the earthquake,Bursting in heapsWith the sudden intractableLust of the hunger:Then when they see them—The miles of the harvestWhite in the sunshine,Rushing and stumbling,With the mighty and clamorousCry of a peopleStarved from creation,Hurl themselves onward,Deep in the wheat-fields,Weeping like children,After ages and ages,Back at the breastsOf their mother the earth.Night in the valley,Gloom on the mountain,Wind in the wheat,Far to the southwardThe flutter of lightning,The shudder of thunder;But high at the zenith,A cluster of starsGlimmers and throbsIn the grasp of the midnight,Steady and absolute,Ancient and sure.
Sun on the mountain,Shade in the valley,Ripple and lightnessLeaping along the world,Sun, like a gold swordPlucked from the scabbard,Striking the wheat-fields,Splendid and lusty,Close-standing, full-headed,Toppling with plenty;Shade, like a bucklerKindly and ample,Sweeping the wheat-fieldsDarkening and tossing;There on the world-rimWinds break and gatherHeaping the mistFor the pyre of the sunset;And still as a shadow,In the dim westward,A cloud sloop of amethystMoored to the worldWith cables of rain.
Sun on the mountain,
Shade in the valley,
Ripple and lightness
Leaping along the world,
Sun, like a gold sword
Plucked from the scabbard,
Striking the wheat-fields,
Splendid and lusty,
Close-standing, full-headed,
Toppling with plenty;
Shade, like a buckler
Kindly and ample,
Sweeping the wheat-fields
Darkening and tossing;
There on the world-rim
Winds break and gather
Heaping the mist
For the pyre of the sunset;
And still as a shadow,
In the dim westward,
A cloud sloop of amethyst
Moored to the world
With cables of rain.
Acres of gold wheatStir in the sunshine,Rounding the hill-top,Crested with plenty,Filling the valley,Brimmed with abundance;Wind in the wheat-fieldEddying and settling,Swaying it, sweeping it,Lifting the rich heads,Tossing them soothingly;Twinkle and shimmerThe lights and the shadowings,Nimble as moonlightAstir in the mere.Laden with odorsOf peace and of plenty,Soft comes the windFrom the ranks of the wheat-field,Bearing a promiseOf harvest and sickle-time,Opulent threshing-floorsDusty and dimWith the whirl of the flail,And wagons of bread,Down-laden and lumberingThrough the gateways of cities.
Acres of gold wheat
Stir in the sunshine,
Rounding the hill-top,
Crested with plenty,
Filling the valley,
Brimmed with abundance;
Wind in the wheat-field
Eddying and settling,
Swaying it, sweeping it,
Lifting the rich heads,
Tossing them soothingly;
Twinkle and shimmer
The lights and the shadowings,
Nimble as moonlight
Astir in the mere.
Laden with odors
Of peace and of plenty,
Soft comes the wind
From the ranks of the wheat-field,
Bearing a promise
Of harvest and sickle-time,
Opulent threshing-floors
Dusty and dim
With the whirl of the flail,
And wagons of bread,
Down-laden and lumbering
Through the gateways of cities.
When will the reapersStrike in their sickles,Bending and grasping,Shearing and spreading;When will the gleanersSearching the stubbleTake the last wheat-headsHome in their arms?
When will the reapers
Strike in their sickles,
Bending and grasping,
Shearing and spreading;
When will the gleaners
Searching the stubble
Take the last wheat-heads
Home in their arms?
Ask not the question!—Something tremendousMoves to the answer.
Ask not the question!—
Something tremendous
Moves to the answer.
Hunger and povertyHeaped like the oceanWelters and mutters,Hold back the sickles!
Hunger and poverty
Heaped like the ocean
Welters and mutters,
Hold back the sickles!
Millions of childrenBorn to their terribleAncestral hunger,Starved in their mothers’ womb,Starved at the nipple, cry,—Ours is the harvest!
Millions of children
Born to their terrible
Ancestral hunger,
Starved in their mothers’ womb,
Starved at the nipple, cry,—
Ours is the harvest!
Millions of womenLearned in the tragicalSecrets of poverty,Sweated and beaten, cry,—Hold back the sickles!
Millions of women
Learned in the tragical
Secrets of poverty,
Sweated and beaten, cry,—
Hold back the sickles!
Millions of menWith a vestige of manhood,Wild-eyed and gaunt-throated,Shout with a leonineAccent of anger,Leave us the wheat-fields!
Millions of men
With a vestige of manhood,
Wild-eyed and gaunt-throated,
Shout with a leonine
Accent of anger,
Leave us the wheat-fields!
When will the reapersStrike in their sickles?Ask not the question;Something tremendousMoves to the answer.
When will the reapers
Strike in their sickles?
Ask not the question;
Something tremendous
Moves to the answer.
Long have they sharpenedTheir fiery, impetuousSickles of carnage,Welded them æonsAgo in the mountainsOf suffering and anguish;Hearts were their hammersBlood was their fire,Sorrow their anvil,(Trusty the sicklesTempered with tears;)Time they had plenty—Harvests and harvestsPassed them in agony,Only a half-filledEar for their lot;Man that had takenGod for a masterMade him a law,Mocked him and cursed him,Set up this hunger,Called it necessity,Put in the blameless mouthJudas’s language:The poor ye have with youAlway, unending.
Long have they sharpened
Their fiery, impetuous
Sickles of carnage,
Welded them æons
Ago in the mountains
Of suffering and anguish;
Hearts were their hammers
Blood was their fire,
Sorrow their anvil,
(Trusty the sickles
Tempered with tears;)
Time they had plenty—
Harvests and harvests
Passed them in agony,
Only a half-filled
Ear for their lot;
Man that had taken
God for a master
Made him a law,
Mocked him and cursed him,
Set up this hunger,
Called it necessity,
Put in the blameless mouth
Judas’s language:
The poor ye have with you
Alway, unending.
But up from the impotentAnguish of children,Up from the laborFruitless, unmeaning,Of millions of mothers,Hugely necessitous,Grew by a just lawStern and implacable,Art born of poverty,The making of sicklesMeet for the harvest.
But up from the impotent
Anguish of children,
Up from the labor
Fruitless, unmeaning,
Of millions of mothers,
Hugely necessitous,
Grew by a just law
Stern and implacable,
Art born of poverty,
The making of sickles
Meet for the harvest.
And now to the wheat-fieldsCome the weird reapersArmed with their sickles,Whipping them keenlyIn the fresh-air fields,Wild with the joy of them,Finding them trusty,Hilted with teen.Swarming like ants,The Idea for captain,No banners, no bugles,Only a terribleGround-bass of gatheringTempest and fury,Only a tossingOf arms and of garments;Sexless and featureless,(Only the childrenDifferent among them,Crawling between their feet,Borne on their shoulders;)Rolling their shaggy headsWild with the unheard-ofDrug of the sunshine;Tears that had eatenThe half of their eyelidsDry on their cheeks;Blood in their stiffened hairClouted and darkened;Down in their cavern heartsHunger the tiger,Leaping, exulting;Sighs that had choked themBurst into triumphing;On they come, Victory!Up to the wheat-fields,Dreamed of in visionsBred by the hunger,Seen for the first timeSplendid and golden;On they come fluctuant,Seething and breaking,Weltering like fireIn the pit of the earthquake,Bursting in heapsWith the sudden intractableLust of the hunger:Then when they see them—The miles of the harvestWhite in the sunshine,Rushing and stumbling,With the mighty and clamorousCry of a peopleStarved from creation,Hurl themselves onward,Deep in the wheat-fields,Weeping like children,After ages and ages,Back at the breastsOf their mother the earth.
And now to the wheat-fields
Come the weird reapers
Armed with their sickles,
Whipping them keenly
In the fresh-air fields,
Wild with the joy of them,
Finding them trusty,
Hilted with teen.
Swarming like ants,
The Idea for captain,
No banners, no bugles,
Only a terrible
Ground-bass of gathering
Tempest and fury,
Only a tossing
Of arms and of garments;
Sexless and featureless,
(Only the children
Different among them,
Crawling between their feet,
Borne on their shoulders;)
Rolling their shaggy heads
Wild with the unheard-of
Drug of the sunshine;
Tears that had eaten
The half of their eyelids
Dry on their cheeks;
Blood in their stiffened hair
Clouted and darkened;
Down in their cavern hearts
Hunger the tiger,
Leaping, exulting;
Sighs that had choked them
Burst into triumphing;
On they come, Victory!
Up to the wheat-fields,
Dreamed of in visions
Bred by the hunger,
Seen for the first time
Splendid and golden;
On they come fluctuant,
Seething and breaking,
Weltering like fire
In the pit of the earthquake,
Bursting in heaps
With the sudden intractable
Lust of the hunger:
Then when they see them—
The miles of the harvest
White in the sunshine,
Rushing and stumbling,
With the mighty and clamorous
Cry of a people
Starved from creation,
Hurl themselves onward,
Deep in the wheat-fields,
Weeping like children,
After ages and ages,
Back at the breasts
Of their mother the earth.
Night in the valley,Gloom on the mountain,Wind in the wheat,Far to the southwardThe flutter of lightning,The shudder of thunder;But high at the zenith,A cluster of starsGlimmers and throbsIn the grasp of the midnight,Steady and absolute,Ancient and sure.
Night in the valley,
Gloom on the mountain,
Wind in the wheat,
Far to the southward
The flutter of lightning,
The shudder of thunder;
But high at the zenith,
A cluster of stars
Glimmers and throbs
In the grasp of the midnight,
Steady and absolute,
Ancient and sure.