Poetry Archives

’Tis the feast of corn, ’tis the feast of bread,
   On the dear scene returned to, witnessed again!
So white is the light o’er the reapers shed
   Their shadows fall pink on the level grain.

The stalked gold drops to the whistling flight
   Of the scythes, whose lightning dives deep, leaps clear;
The plain, labor-strewn to the confines of sight,
   Changes face at each instant, gay and severe.

All pants, all is effort and toil ’neath the sun,
   The stolid old sun, tranquil ripener of wheat,
Who works o’er our haste imperturbably on
   To swell the green grape yon, turning it sweet.

Work on, faithful sun, for the bread and the wine,
   Feed man with the milk of the earth, and bestow
The frank glass wherein unconcern laughs divine,—
   Ye harvesters, vintagers, work on, aglow!

For from the flour’s fairest, and from the vine’s best,
   Fruit of man’s strength spread to earth’s uttermost,
God gathers and reaps, to His purposes blest,
   The Flesh and the Blood for the chalice and host!