Harvest In Russia

The breeze has come at last. The day was long; And in the lustrous air the dark bats fly; And Hark! It is the reapers passing by, I hear the burden of their peaceful song. A voice intones; and swift the answering throng Take up the theme and build the harmony; The music swells and soars into the sky And dies away intense, and clear and strong.

Now through the trees the stately shapes I see Of women with the attributes of toil, Calm in their sacerdotal majesty; And backward, through the drifting mist of years, I see the festal rites that blessed the soil, As old as the first drop of mortal tears.