Songs and poems / by John Jay Chapman [electronic text]

HARVEST TIME

BEHOLD, the harvest is at hand; And thick on the encircling hills The sheaves like an encampment stand, Making a martial fairy-land That half the landscape fills. The plains in colors brightly blent Are burnished by the standing grain That runs across a continent. In sheets of gold or silver stain Or red as copper from the mine, The oats, the barley, and the buckwheat shine.

Autumn has pitched his royal tent, And set his banner in the field; Where blazes every ornament That beamed in an heraldic shield. He spreads his carpets from the store Of stuffs the richest burghers wore, When velvet-robed, and studded o'er With gems, they faced their Emperor.

A wind is in the laughing grain That bends to dodge his rough caress, Knowing the rogue will come again To frolic with its loveliness. And in the highways drifts a stream Of carts, of cattle, and of men; While scythes in every meadow gleam, And Adam sweats again.

In the young orchard forms are seen With throats thrown open to the breeze, To reap the rye that lies between; And sickles hang on apple-trees, Half hidden in the glossy leaves, And pails beside the reapers lie; While sturdy yokels toss the sheaves, And hats are cocked and elbows ply, And blackbirds rise to cloud the sky In swarms that chatter as they fly.

From field to field each shady lane Is strown and traced with wisps of hay, Where gates lie open to the wain That creaks upon its toiling way. And little children, dumb with pride, Upon the rocking mountain ride, While anxious parents warn; And farm-boys guide the lazy team Till it shall stand beneath the beam That spans the gaping barn.

The harvest to its cavern sinks, While shafts of sunlight probe the chinksAnd fumes of incense rise. Then, as the farmers turn the latch, Good-natured Autumn smiles to watch The triumph in their eyes. His gifts, from many a groaning load, Are heaved and packed, and wheeled and stowed By gnomes that hoard the prize. The grist of a celestial mill, Which man has harnessed to his will, In one bright torrent falls to fill The greedy granaries.

Beneath that annual rain of gold Kingdoms arise, expand, decay; Philosophers their mind unfold And poets sing, and pass away. Forever turns the winnowing fan:It runs with an eternal force, As run the planets in their course Behind the life of man. Little we heed that silent power, Save as the gusty chaff is whirled, When Autumn triumphs for an hour,And spills his riches on the world.