Opals (Custance)/Harvest Noon
Harvest Noon
It is the harvest; on the fieldsHovers a tremulous haze of heat . . .The sharpened scythe each labourer wieldsGleams silver in the golden wheat.
The level landscape spreads away—The sky folds over like a flower,Whose petal tips of purple greyFlush flame-like at the sunset hour.
The swallows flash above our headsIn undulating curves of flight.A delicate dance the south wind treadsBetween the shadows and the light. . . .
And poplar trees on either hand Lilt out leaf music as we pass. . . .Only the aureoled daisies stand And stir not, in the tangled grass. . . .······