Poetry Archives

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.

The wave tops whiten on the sea fields drear,
 And men go forth at haggard dawn to reap;
But ever ’mid the gleaners’ song we hear
 The half-hushed sobbing of the hearts that weep.