SPRING hath the morning gladness, The hope of budding leaves; And Summer in her queenly lap The wealth of noon receives; But Autumn hath the twilight's crown, The joy of garnered sheaves. Where late in stately phalanx The ribboned corn was seen, Where the golden wheat was waving, And the oats in silver sheen, And where the buckwheat snow was white, Hath the reaper's sickle been. In clouds the purple aster Enfolds the hillsides bare; The sumach lifts its vivid plumes Like flame; the misty air Hath hints of rainbow splendors Estray and captive there. The hidden seed that slumbered So safe beneath the snow, With thrills of life was quickened, And could not help but grow, When pierced the sun's entreaties The frozen mould below. By tender love-caressing, By silent drops of dew, Mid sudden storms of passion And heats of wrath it grew, Till the fields were ripe to harvest, And the year's long work was through. The mother-earth is tired— No child on mother-breast Lies soft till after birth-throes; Toil giveth right to rest; And all the joy of harvest With the peace of God is blest. |