A SONG of the good green grass!
A song no more of the city streets;
A song of farms--a song of the soil of fields.
LORD of the lotus, lord of the harvest,
Bright and munificent lord of the morn!
Pillowed and hushed on the silent plain,
Wrapped in her mantle of golden grain,
Wearied of pleasuring weeks away,
Under the harvest moon,
When the soft silver
Over the garden nights,
I am a reaper whose muscles set at sundown. All my oats are cradled.
But I am too chilled, and too fatigued to bind them.
And I hunger.
Fear, like a living fire that only death
Might one day cool, had now in Avon’s eyes
Been witness for so long of an invasion
That made of a gay friend whom we had known
The grapes are ready
The wheat stands ripe
Rear end is coming
May be here tonight
If you manage to get one paisa,
buy food to feed your hunger,
But if you manage two,
take half and buy a flower.
The earth grows white with harvest; all day long
The sickles gleam, until the darkness weaves
Her web of silence o'er the thankful song
Of reapers bringing home the golden sheaves.