HARVEST.
HOW I love to see the golden corn
Lie basking in the new-born morn;
The reapers bending to their toil;
The sun their efforts cannot foil.
The golden sheaves, in yellow bundles bound,
Soon dots the fields within their little mound;
The gleaners gather up each scatter'd grain,—
They find their trouble not in vain;—
Perchance some child entwines a wreath
Of those fair flowers that grew beneath
The corn so tall, and dancing poppies bright,
Which look so gay and gaudy in the light!
Lie basking in the new-born morn;
The reapers bending to their toil;
The sun their efforts cannot foil.
The golden sheaves, in yellow bundles bound,
Soon dots the fields within their little mound;
The gleaners gather up each scatter'd grain,—
They find their trouble not in vain;—
Perchance some child entwines a wreath
Of those fair flowers that grew beneath
The corn so tall, and dancing poppies bright,
Which look so gay and gaudy in the light!
