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THE HARVEST CHORUS
Ellin Anderson
Let's lean on the
pasture gate
Hand in hand, to watch the late
Slanting sunlight — melting gold,
Like the wealth of drowsy hives.
There, beside the ripened corn,
Where the fragrant field is shorn,
A second scythe, the kestrel dives,
And in her wake, the day turns cold.
Hear the ragged choir sing,
Sweeter than a night in Spring,
For they know their time draws near.
Just above the spiders' nets
On the rays of purple flowers,
Bees mark out the honey hours.
Thistles are their minarets,
Heralds of the waning year.
Ruby-brilliant, almost cruel
To the eye, a living jewel
Glistens on the dying stalk.
So delectable a hue!
Lovers tangled in sweet hay
Cannot make the summer stay;
Let them tell their passion to
The bone-bleak moon, as pale as chalk.
Oh Death, who dwells within the sheaf,
And animates the trembling leaf
With frosty breath and scarlet fire;
September's haze like golden dust,
That new-mown field — a tasseled pall,
Your mantle hangs upon us all;
The only vow our flesh can trust —
Reward of all desire!
© 2008 by Ellin Anderson. All rights
reserved.
No part of this work may be copied or used in any way
without written permission from the author. |
