POETRY: A Magazine of Verse
AT HARVEST
Earth travails,
Like a woman come to her time.
The swaying corn-haulms
In the heavy places of the field
Cry to be gathered.
Apples redden, and drop from their rods.
Out of their sheath of prickly leaves
The marrows creep, fat and white.
The blue pallor of ripeness
Comes on the fruit of the vine-branch.
Fecund and still fecund
After æons of bearing:
Not old, not dry, not wearied out;
But fresh as when the unseen Right Hand
First moved on Bri.
And the candle of day was set,
And dew fell from the stars' feet,
And cloths of greenness covered thee.
Let me kiss thy breasts:
I am the son and lover.
Womb-fellow am I of the sunburnt oat,
Friendly gossip of the mearings;
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