V

The meadows wear a cloth of gold, The trees wear green; Upon the down in dimpled fold The white lambs glean; Deep blue the skyey canopy, Soft the wind's fan: Behold the earth as it might be If man lov'd man!

Summer is soon; the next new moon Will see the yellowing wheat; Then will be harvest, Earth's high boon To them that work for it. The reapers swink, the heat-waves blink Across the drowsy fen— Now let hearts shrink from scythes that drink The blood of young men!