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Harvest

by Ellen Mackay Hutchinson Cortissoz

Sweet, sweet, sweet,
Is the wind’s song,
Astir in the rippled wheat
All day long.
It hath the brook’s wild gayety,
The sorrowful cry of the sea.
Oh hush and hear!
Sweet, sweet and clear,
Above the locust’s whirr
And hum of bee
Rises that soft, pathetic harmony.

In the meadow-grass
The innocent white daisies blow,
The dandelion plume doth pass
Vaguely to and fro,—
The unquiet spirit of a flower
That hath too brief an hour.

Now doth a little cloud all white,
Or golden bright,
Drift down the warm, blue sky;
And now on the horizon line,
Where dusky woodlands lie,
A sunny mist doth shine,
Like to a veil before a holy shrine,
Concealing, half-revealing
Things Divine.

Sweet, sweet, sweet,
Is the wind’s song,
Astir in the rippled wheat
All day long.
That exquisite music calls
The reaper everywhere—
Life and death must share,
The golden harvest falls.

So doth all end,—
Honored Philosophy,
Science and Art,
The bloom of the heart;—
Master, Consoler, Friend,
Make Thou the harvest of our days
To fall within Thy ways.