The Poetry Corner

Before Harvest.

By W. M. MacKeracher

And now 'tis time for Harvest. Hark! and lo, With ringing sound of full melodious horn, Over yon eastern hill-top all aglow, - Her sickle gleaming in the golden morn, Her arm upraised with sheaf of yellow corn, - She comes elate with light, elastic pace; Her neck and zone full-clustered vines adorn; Her saffron locks, fruit-crowned; her luscious grace; Her round and ripened form; her fair, benignant face. And now the fields, when suns serenely greet, A rich and mellow, wanton joy afford: The russet pease vines, and the burnished wheat And whiter barley, - hating to be stored, Guarding with jealous spears their precious hoard, - The tapering oat-stalk, dangling beads of gold: In brilliant sea of beauty all outpoured, With dazzling depth of splendor all untold, Where fleets of zephyrs skip in fold that follows fold Like to a dream I had but yesternight, Of pure, transporting, childlike playfulness, The presence of a fair-haired, blue-eyed, bright, Thoughtless and laughing. - Words can not express In poet phrase the fulness that did bless Entrancingly my vision. I advanced Behind to worship. Straight each golden tress Was ruffled and about my face they danced, Smoth'ring with beauty, while the maiden gleeful glanced.