THE HARVEST by MAXWELL STRUTHERS BURT

I WILL arise now and go into the fields, to my love who is at work.
Dusk droops from the mountain-tops like the shadow of a great bird's wing:
In gray corrals the cattle call;
And in the grass, where all the tangled perfumes of the summer lie, the crickets
sing.
From afar off I will see him leaning upon his rake,
And the lithe sweet strength of him will stir my heart
As a bird stirs in a twilight brake,
Stirs and quivers and throbs into a song.
Ah, my dear love, how close I find you now,
Where peace is and the quiet of the hills.

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