Palesheaves of oats, pocked by untimely rain,Under October skies,Teased and forlorn,Ungathered lie where still the tardy wainComes not to sealThe seasons of the corn,From prime to June, with running barns of grain.Now time with me is at the middle year,The register of youthIs now to sing ...My thoughts are ripe, my moods are in full ear;That they should failOf harvesting,Uncarried on cold fields, is all my fear.
Palesheaves of oats, pocked by untimely rain,Under October skies,Teased and forlorn,Ungathered lie where still the tardy wainComes not to sealThe seasons of the corn,From prime to June, with running barns of grain.Now time with me is at the middle year,The register of youthIs now to sing ...My thoughts are ripe, my moods are in full ear;That they should failOf harvesting,Uncarried on cold fields, is all my fear.
Palesheaves of oats, pocked by untimely rain,Under October skies,Teased and forlorn,Ungathered lie where still the tardy wainComes not to sealThe seasons of the corn,From prime to June, with running barns of grain.
Now time with me is at the middle year,The register of youthIs now to sing ...My thoughts are ripe, my moods are in full ear;That they should failOf harvesting,Uncarried on cold fields, is all my fear.
The Riverside PressCAMBRIDGE. MASSACHUSETTSU. S. A.