A Harvest Song
The gray bulk of the granaries uploom against the sky;
The harvest moon has dwindled—they have housed the corn and rye;
And now the idle reapers lounge against the bolted doors:
Without are hungry harvesters, within enchanted stores.
Lo, they had bread while they were out a-toiling in the sun:
Now they are strolling beggars, for the harvest work is done.
They are the gods of husbandry: they gather in the sheaves,
But when the autumn strips the wood, they’re drifting with the leaves.
They plow and sow and gather in the glory of the corn;
They know the noon, they know the pitiless rains before the morn;
They know the sweep of furrowed fields that darken in the gloom—
A little while their hope on earth, then evermore the tomb.