HARVEST-HOME (2) by CHARLES TENNYSON TURNER

All day we watched the unintermitted fume
Of clouds, but still there was no downward rush
Of rain; then evening came and brought a flush
Of windy redness, in the place of gloom;
None but sweet hues and pleasant airs remained;
The dry light gust that swept the dancing sprays,
And a white moon, astir in rosy haze
Above our latest labours; none complained
Of that sharp toil. The sheaves flew fast and thick
From fork to fork, to feed the growing rick;
Each waved its farewell, as it took the leap;
Some blest the God of harvest, some their luck;
The horses' weary feet their threshold struck,
And the hinds supt, and slept a happy sleep.

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