Harvest
Only the seasons and the years invade
These quiet wheatfields where the Armies crashed.
And mockingbirds and quail fly unafraid
Within the forest where the rifles flashed.
Here where the bladed wings of death have mown
And gleaned their harvestry of golden lives,
The fruitful seeds of corn and wheat are sown,
And where the cannon smoked, an orchard thrives.
Long are the war years over, with their pain,
Their passionate tears and fury, and the sun
Lies hot and yellow on the heavy grain,
And all the fighting on these fields is done.
But in their peace, the quivering heart recalls
The youth that bled beside these old stone walls.
—Agnes Kendrick Gray.
By Permission of the Author.