THE OLDEST GARNER by EDITH MATILDA THOMAS

I

NOW all those ancient garners are heaped high
Through whose warped siding shot the evening sun
In empty summer. Now, the harvest done,
On threshing floors, unbound, the gold sheaves lie;
The fanning mills their droning burden ply,
And fragrant falls of hay the mows o'errun;
And, look! the merry bubble from the tun
Declares not quite have vintage joys gone by.

All fruiteries and granneries -- behold,
Full to the eaves! and thankful shalt thou be,
Whether with prayer, O man, or careless mirth.
But, while thy hands a long spell thou mayst fold,
Comes not, sometimes, this quiet thought to thee:
The oldest of all garners is the Earth?

II

Lo, she her thrift is ever harvesting,
By wild unfenced or by the garden croft,
All summer taking tithe unmarked, and oft
She gathers on the very bound of spring;
From when frail seed barks first go voyaging,
(Charmed back to her, howe'er they sail aloft),
To when witch hazel's pallid plumes are doffed,
And, too, she hoards what swollen streams may bring.

Her store a million, thine a tenth, O man!
And all she hath she will most safely keep
The harrying winter through -- 'tis but a span.
Her harvests are not dead, but hold new birth,
And shall in beauty rise -- after a sleep.
The oldest of all garners is the Earth.

III

I did, myself, too lightly hold the thought
Till this November eve, when dead leaves stir
Around my pathway, and a rainy blur
All cheerful color in a veil has caught.
Now is my theme with darker meaning fraught:
She who outrivals every harvester
At last -- not late, she beckons him to her --
He gathered is, with all that he has wrought.

So, year by year, mine own she downward drew,
And took them to herself to closely keep.
What knowest thou, O man? Would that I knew
Such harvests are not dead, but hold new birth,
And shall in beauty rise -- after a sleep.
The oldest of all garners is the Earth.

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

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