Poems. Volume III / H. F. Gould [electronic text]

THE WHEAT FIELD.

FIELD of wheat, so full and fair, Shining, with thy sunny hair Lightly waving either way, Graceful as the breezes play— Looking like a summer sea; How I love to gaze at thee! Pleasant art thou to the sight; And to thought a rich delight, Then, thy voice is music sweet, Softly sighing field of wheat.

Pointing upward to the sky, Rising straight, and aiming high, Every stalk is seen to shoot As an arrow, from the root. Like a well-trained company, All in uniform agree, From the footing to the ear; All in order strict appear. Marshalled by a skilful hand, All together bow, or stand Still, within the proper bound: None o'ersteps the given ground, With its tribute held to pay, At his nod whom they obey, Each the gems, that stud its crown, Will ere long, for man, lay down.

Thou with promise art replete Of the precious sheaves of wheat.

How thy strength in weakness lies! Not a robber bird, that flies, Finds support whereby to put On a stalk her lawless foot. Not a predatory beak Plunges down, thy stores to seek, Where the guard of silver spears Keeps the fruit, and decks the ears. No vain insect, that could do Harm to thee, dares venture through Such an armory, or eat Off the sheath to take the wheat.

What a study do we find Opened here for eye and mind! In it who can offer less, Than to wonder, and confess, That on this high-favored ground, Faith is blest, and hope is crowned. Charity her arm may spread Wide from it, with gifts of bread, Wisdom, power, and goodness meet In the bounteous field of wheat.