Thirty Poems/The Song of the Sower

by William Cullen Bryant

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THE SONG OF THE SOWER.

 

I.The maples redden in the sun; In autumn gold the beeches stand;Rest, faithful plough, thy work is done Upon the teeming land.Bordered with trees whose gay leaves flyOn every breath that sweeps the sky,The fresh dark acres furrowed lie, And ask the sower's hand.Loose the tired steer and let him goTo pasture where the gentians blow,And we, who till the grateful ground,Fling we the golden shower around.

II.Fling wide the generous grain; we flingO'er the dark mould the green of spring.For thick the emerald blades shall grow,When first the March winds melt the snow,And to the sleeping flowers, below, The early bluebirds sing.Fling wide the grain; we give the fields The ears that nod in summer's gale,The shining stems that summer gilds, The harvest that o'erflows the vale,And swells, an amber sea, betweenThe full-leaved woods, its shores of green.Hark! from the murmuring clods I hearGlad voices of the coming your;The song of him who binds the grain,The shout of those that load the wain,And from the distant grange there comes The clatter of the thresher's flail,And steadily the millstone hums Down in the willowy vale.

III.Fling wide the golden shower; we trustThe strength of armies to the dust,This peaceful les may haply yieldIts harvest for the tented field.Ha! feel ye not your fingers thrill, As o'er them, in the yellow grains,Glide the warm drops of blood that fill For mortal strife, the warrior's veins;Such as, on Solferino's day,Slaked the brown sand and flowed away;—Flowed till the herds, on Mineio's brink,Snuffed the red stream and feared to drink;—Blood that in deeper pools shall lie, On the sad earth, as time grows gray,When men by deadlier arts shall die,And deeper darkness blot the sky  Above the thundering fray;And realms, that hear the battle cry,  Shall sicken with dismay; And chieftains to the war shall leadWhole nations, with the tempest's speed,  To perish in a day;—Till man, by love and mercy taughtShall rue the wreck his fury wrought,  And lay the sword away.Oh strew, with pausing, shuddering hand,The seed upon the helpless land,As if, at every stop, ye castThe pelting hail and riving blast. IV.Nay, strew, with free and joyous sweep, The seed upon the expecting soil;For hence the plenteous year shall heap The garners of the men who toil.Strew the bright seed for those who tearThe matted sward with spade and share,And those whose sounding axes gleam.Beside the lonely forest stream,  Till its broad banks lie bare; And him who breaks the quarry-ledge, With hammer-blows, plied quick and strong,And him who, with the steady sledge, Smites the shrill anvil all day long.Sprinkle the furrow's even trace For those whose toiling hands uprearThe roof-trees of our swarming race, By grove and plain, by stream and mere;Who forth, from crowded city, lead The lengthening street, and overlayGreen orchard plot and grassy mead With pavement of the murmuring way.Cast, with full hands, the harvest cast,For the brave men that climb the mast,When to the billow and the blast It swings and stoops, with fearful strain,And bind the fluttering mainsail fast, Till the tossed bark shall sit, again, Safe as a seabird in the main.

V.Fling wide the grain for those who throwThe clanking shuttle to and fro,In the long row of humming rooms, And into ponderous masses windThe web that, from a thousand looms, Comes forth to clothe mankind.Strew, with free sweep, the grain for them, By whom the busy thread,Along the garment's even hem And winding seam is led;A pallid sisterhood, that keep The lonely lamp alight,In strife with weariness and sleep, Beyond the middle night.Large part be theirs in what the yearShall ripen for the reaper here. VI.Still, strew, with joyous hand, the wheatOn the soft mould beneath our feet,   For even now I seemTo hear a sound that lightly ringsFrom murmuring harp and viol's strings,  s in a summer dream.The welcome of the wedding guest, The bridegrooom's look of bashful pride, The faint smile of the pallid bride,And bridemaid's blush at matron's jest,And dance and song and generous dowerAre in the shining grains we shower. VII.Scatter the wheat for shipwrecked men,Who, hunger-worn, rejoice again In the sweet safety of the shore,And wanderers, lost in woodlands drear,Whose pulses bound with joy to hear The herd's light bell ones more. Freely the golden spray be shedFor him whose heart, when night comes downOn the close alleys of the town, Is faint for lack of bread. In chill roof chambers, bleak and bare,Or the damp cellar's stifling air,She who now sees, in mute despair,  Her children pine for food,Shall feel the dews of gladness startTo lids long tearless, and shall partThe sweet loaf, with a grateful heart,  Among her thin, pale brood.Dear, kindly Earth, whose breast we till!Oh, for thy famished children, fill,  Where'er the sower walks,Fill the rich ours that shade the mouldWith grain for grain, a hundredfold, To bend the sturdy stalks. VIII.Strew silently the fruitful seed, As softly o'er the tilth yo tread,For hands that delicately knead The consecrated bread. The mystie loaf that crowns the board,When, round the table of their Lord,  Within a thousand temples set,In memory of the bitter deathOf him who taught at Nazareth,  His followers are met,And thoughtful eyes with tears are wet, As of the Holy One they think,The glory of whose rising, yet Makes bright the grave's mysterious brink. IX. Brethren, the sower's task is done.The seed is in its winter bed.Now let the dark brown mould be spread, To hide it from the sun,And leave it to the kindly careOf the still earth and brooding air.As when the mother, from her breast,Lays the hushed babe apart to rest,And shades its eyes and waits to seeHow sweet its waking smile will be. The tempest now may smite, the sleetAll night on the drowned furrow beat,And winds that, from the cloudy hold,Of winter breathe the bitter cold,Stiffen to stone the mellow mould,  Yet safe shall lie the wheat;Till, out of heaven's unmeasured blue, Shall walk again the genial year,To wake with warmth and nurse with dew, The germs we lay to slumber here. X.Oh blessed harvest yet to be! Abide thou with the love that keeps,In its warm bosom, tenderly, The life which wakes and that which sleeps.The love that leads the willing spheresAlong the unending track of years,And watches o'er the sparrow's nest,Shall brood above thy winter rest, And raise thee from the dust, to hold Light whisperings with the winds of May,And fill thy spikes with living gold, From summer's yellow ray,Then, as thy garners give thee forth, On what glad errands shalt thou go,Wherever, o'er the waiting earth, Roads wind and rivers flow.The ancient East shall welcome theeTo mighty marts beyond the sea,And they who dwell where palm groves soundTo summer winds the whole year round,Shall watch, in gladness, from the shore,The sails that bring thy glistening store.