The full-ripened figure of fortunate sowings
Past the village, and out to the sleepy woods eaves,
Already grown grey, a grain-ear nods, grieves
Whispers: "Where are you, my reapers? Time's going!"
The reapers came hot-foot - and to-ing and fro-ing,
They gather the guardian ears into sheaves,
Their sickles are clashing like knives, and there weaves
Over them, age-old, the harvest songs flowing.
Plaintively, sadly the song floats away,
Loses its trills where the forest spreads deeply,
In whispers of white ears the tillage is keeping,
And the song floats to me too, comes to say
(In the heart chiming like scythe in the hay):
"You, too, have sowed, brother... Where is your reaping?"