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THOUGHTS IN A WHEAT‐FIELD
“The harvest is the end of the world, and the reapers are the angels”
- IN his wide fields walks the Master,
- In his fair fields, ripe for harvest,
- Where the evening sun shines slant‐wise
- On the rich ears heavy bending;
- Saith the Master: “It is time.”
- Though no leaf shows brown decadence,
- And September’s nightly frost‐bite
- Only reddens the horizon,
- “It is full time,” saith the Master,
- The wise Master, “It is time.”
- Lo, he looks. That look compelling
- Brings his laborers to the harvest;
- Quick they gather, as in autumn
- Passage‐birds in cloudy eddies
- Drop upon the seaside fields;
- White wings have they, and white raiment,
- White feet shod with swift obedience,
- Each lays down his golden palm branch,
- And uprears his sickle shining,
- “Speak, O Master,—is it time?”
- O’er the field the servants hasten,
- Where the full‐stored ears droop downwards,
- Humble with their weight of harvest:
- Where the empty ears wave upward,
- And the gay tares flaunt in rows:
- But the sickles, the sharp sickles,
- Flash new dawn at their appearing,
- Songs are heard in earth and heaven,
- For the reapers are the angels,
- And it is the harvest time.
- O Great Master, are thy footsteps
- Even now upon the mountains?
- Are thou walking in thy wheat‐field?
- Are the snowy‐wingèd reapers
- Gathering in the silent air?
- Are thy signs abroad, the glowing
- Of the distant sky, blood‐reddened,—
- And the near fields trodden, blighted,
- Choked by gaudy tares triumphant,—
- Sure, it must be harvest time?
- Who shall know the Master’s coming?
- Whether it be at dawn or sunset,
- When night dews weigh down the wheat‐ears,
- Or while noon rides high in heaven,
- Sleeping lies the yellow field?
- Only, may thy voice, Good Master,
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- Peal above the reapers’ chorus,
- And dull sound of sheaves slow falling,—
- “Gather all into My garner,
- For it is My harvest time.”
