The wheat-stalks are heavy and white,
They slant beside the wall,
And lean against each other,
Lest they should faint and fall.
Beneath them the poppies crouch,
Knee-deep in their crimson bloom,
And partridge and shuffling woodchuck
Glide shyly into the gloom.
Among them the brown bee strays,
Oft stops to feed his fill,
And bears his burden of sweetness
Homeward over the hill.
And over them, to and fro,
The yellow butterfly wheels,
Then, catching a flash of sunshine,
Wafts it across the fields.
The reaper leans on his scythe,
And watches the river flow,
He watches a boat on its bosom,
And the rowers as they row.
His hopes are part of its freight,
And, gazing with misty eyes,
A tempest of sudden ruin
Drives through the darkened skies.
For the reaping time has come,
And waiting the reaper stands,
But the running river snatches
The harvest from his hands.
