1THE WINNOWERSBetwixttwo billows of the downsThe little hamlet lies,And nothing sees but the bald crownsOf the hills, and the blue skies.Clustering beneath the long descentAnd grey slopes of the wold,The red roofs nestle, oversprentWith lichen yellow as gold.We found it in the mid-day sunBasking, what time of yearThe thrush his singing has begun,Ere the first leaves appear.High from his load a woodman pitchedHis faggots on the stack:Knee-deep in straw the cattle twitchedSweet hay from crib and rack:And from the barn hard by was borneA steady muffled din,By which we knew that threshèd cornWas winnowing, and went in.The sunbeams on the motey airStreamed through the open door,And on the brown arms moving bare,And the grain upon the floor.One turns the crank, one stoops to feedThe hopper, lest it lack,One in the bushel scoops the seed,One stands to hold the sack.We watched the good grain rattle down,And the awns fly in the draught;To see us both so pensive grownThe honest labourers laughed:Merry they were, because the wheatWas clean and plump and good,Pleasant to hand and eye, and meetFor market and for food.It chanced we from the city were,And had not gat us freeIn spirit from the store and stirOf its immensity:But here we found ourselves again.Where humble harvests bringAfter much toil but little grain,’Tis merry winnowing.
1THE WINNOWERSBetwixttwo billows of the downsThe little hamlet lies,And nothing sees but the bald crownsOf the hills, and the blue skies.Clustering beneath the long descentAnd grey slopes of the wold,The red roofs nestle, oversprentWith lichen yellow as gold.We found it in the mid-day sunBasking, what time of yearThe thrush his singing has begun,Ere the first leaves appear.High from his load a woodman pitchedHis faggots on the stack:Knee-deep in straw the cattle twitchedSweet hay from crib and rack:And from the barn hard by was borneA steady muffled din,By which we knew that threshèd cornWas winnowing, and went in.The sunbeams on the motey airStreamed through the open door,And on the brown arms moving bare,And the grain upon the floor.One turns the crank, one stoops to feedThe hopper, lest it lack,One in the bushel scoops the seed,One stands to hold the sack.We watched the good grain rattle down,And the awns fly in the draught;To see us both so pensive grownThe honest labourers laughed:Merry they were, because the wheatWas clean and plump and good,Pleasant to hand and eye, and meetFor market and for food.It chanced we from the city were,And had not gat us freeIn spirit from the store and stirOf its immensity:But here we found ourselves again.Where humble harvests bringAfter much toil but little grain,’Tis merry winnowing.
Betwixttwo billows of the downsThe little hamlet lies,And nothing sees but the bald crownsOf the hills, and the blue skies.Clustering beneath the long descentAnd grey slopes of the wold,The red roofs nestle, oversprentWith lichen yellow as gold.We found it in the mid-day sunBasking, what time of yearThe thrush his singing has begun,Ere the first leaves appear.High from his load a woodman pitchedHis faggots on the stack:Knee-deep in straw the cattle twitchedSweet hay from crib and rack:And from the barn hard by was borneA steady muffled din,By which we knew that threshèd cornWas winnowing, and went in.The sunbeams on the motey airStreamed through the open door,And on the brown arms moving bare,And the grain upon the floor.One turns the crank, one stoops to feedThe hopper, lest it lack,One in the bushel scoops the seed,One stands to hold the sack.We watched the good grain rattle down,And the awns fly in the draught;To see us both so pensive grownThe honest labourers laughed:Merry they were, because the wheatWas clean and plump and good,Pleasant to hand and eye, and meetFor market and for food.It chanced we from the city were,And had not gat us freeIn spirit from the store and stirOf its immensity:But here we found ourselves again.Where humble harvests bringAfter much toil but little grain,’Tis merry winnowing.
Betwixttwo billows of the downsThe little hamlet lies,And nothing sees but the bald crownsOf the hills, and the blue skies.Clustering beneath the long descentAnd grey slopes of the wold,The red roofs nestle, oversprentWith lichen yellow as gold.We found it in the mid-day sunBasking, what time of yearThe thrush his singing has begun,Ere the first leaves appear.High from his load a woodman pitchedHis faggots on the stack:Knee-deep in straw the cattle twitchedSweet hay from crib and rack:And from the barn hard by was borneA steady muffled din,By which we knew that threshèd cornWas winnowing, and went in.The sunbeams on the motey airStreamed through the open door,And on the brown arms moving bare,And the grain upon the floor.One turns the crank, one stoops to feedThe hopper, lest it lack,One in the bushel scoops the seed,One stands to hold the sack.We watched the good grain rattle down,And the awns fly in the draught;To see us both so pensive grownThe honest labourers laughed:Merry they were, because the wheatWas clean and plump and good,Pleasant to hand and eye, and meetFor market and for food.It chanced we from the city were,And had not gat us freeIn spirit from the store and stirOf its immensity:But here we found ourselves again.Where humble harvests bringAfter much toil but little grain,’Tis merry winnowing.
Betwixttwo billows of the downsThe little hamlet lies,And nothing sees but the bald crownsOf the hills, and the blue skies.
Betwixttwo billows of the downs
The little hamlet lies,
And nothing sees but the bald crowns
Of the hills, and the blue skies.
Clustering beneath the long descentAnd grey slopes of the wold,The red roofs nestle, oversprentWith lichen yellow as gold.
Clustering beneath the long descent
And grey slopes of the wold,
The red roofs nestle, oversprent
With lichen yellow as gold.
We found it in the mid-day sunBasking, what time of yearThe thrush his singing has begun,Ere the first leaves appear.
We found it in the mid-day sun
Basking, what time of year
The thrush his singing has begun,
Ere the first leaves appear.
High from his load a woodman pitchedHis faggots on the stack:Knee-deep in straw the cattle twitchedSweet hay from crib and rack:
High from his load a woodman pitched
His faggots on the stack:
Knee-deep in straw the cattle twitched
Sweet hay from crib and rack:
And from the barn hard by was borneA steady muffled din,By which we knew that threshèd cornWas winnowing, and went in.
And from the barn hard by was borne
A steady muffled din,
By which we knew that threshèd corn
Was winnowing, and went in.
The sunbeams on the motey airStreamed through the open door,And on the brown arms moving bare,And the grain upon the floor.
The sunbeams on the motey air
Streamed through the open door,
And on the brown arms moving bare,
And the grain upon the floor.
One turns the crank, one stoops to feedThe hopper, lest it lack,One in the bushel scoops the seed,One stands to hold the sack.
One turns the crank, one stoops to feed
The hopper, lest it lack,
One in the bushel scoops the seed,
One stands to hold the sack.
We watched the good grain rattle down,And the awns fly in the draught;To see us both so pensive grownThe honest labourers laughed:
We watched the good grain rattle down,
And the awns fly in the draught;
To see us both so pensive grown
The honest labourers laughed:
Merry they were, because the wheatWas clean and plump and good,Pleasant to hand and eye, and meetFor market and for food.
Merry they were, because the wheat
Was clean and plump and good,
Pleasant to hand and eye, and meet
For market and for food.
It chanced we from the city were,And had not gat us freeIn spirit from the store and stirOf its immensity:
It chanced we from the city were,
And had not gat us free
In spirit from the store and stir
Of its immensity:
But here we found ourselves again.Where humble harvests bringAfter much toil but little grain,’Tis merry winnowing.
But here we found ourselves again.
Where humble harvests bring
After much toil but little grain,
’Tis merry winnowing.