Harvest

The hills are steeped in slumberous haze;
The wind is breathing soft and low;
On tranquil slopes the cattle graze;
Through twinkling light the waters flow.
About the meadows, smoothly shorn,
The cricket winds his cheery horn,
And o’er the calm expanse of sky
The filmy clouds drift lazily.
Across the smiling valley—hark!
How steals the echo, sweet and long,
Of those who sing from morn till dark
The happy harvest song.
The mossy barns, with heaped floors,
Amid the peaceful landscape lie;
The doves wheel through the open doors;
About the eaves the swallows fly.
Now slowly rolls the creaking wain
Up from the yellow fields of grain,
Where swart-armed reapers gayly sing,
And sturdy sickles glance and ring.
O liberal earth! O fruitful days!
Each wind that stirs the rustling leaves
Bears round the world the grateful praise
Of those who bind the sheaves.