SICKLES sound; On the ground Fast the ripe ears fall; Every maiden's bonnet Has blue blossoms on it: Joy is over all. Sickles ring, Maidens sing To the sickle's sound; Till the moon is beaming, And the stubble gleaming, Harvest songs go round. All are springing, All are singing, Every lisping thing, Man and master meet, From one dish they eat; Each is now a king. Hans and Michael Whet the sickle, Piping merrily. Now they mow; each maiden Soon with sheaves is laden, Busy as a bee. Now the blisses, And the kisses! Now the wit doth flow Till the beer is out; Then, with song and shout, Home they go, yo ho! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...BENEDICTION by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON NEIGHBORS by EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON THE HIGHWAY DEATH TOLL by KAREN SWENSON SNOW IN THE SUBURBS by THOMAS HARDY ADONAIS; AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF JOHN KEATS by PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY |