A Harvest Song

The gray bulk of the granaries uploom against the sky; The harvest moon has dwindled—they have housed the corn and rye; And now the idle reapers lounge against the bolted doors: Without are hungry harvesters, within enchanted stores.

Lo, they had bread while they were out a-toiling in the sun: Now they are strolling beggars, for the harvest work is done. They are the gods of husbandry: they gather in the sheaves, But when the autumn strips the wood, they’re drifting with the leaves. They plow and sow and gather in the glory of the corn; They know the noon, they know the pitiless rains before the morn; They know the sweep of furrowed fields that darken in the gloom— A little while their hope on earth, then evermore the tomb.