Love is a reaper, too, like death With a scythe for the mowing. He cares not what he takes for his tithe Or of whose sowing. Silent, complacent, he stands for a breath With the field at his feet, And the grain has only the sun for a shield And the shining heat. But when he has laid soft swath on swath He is seen to tire. How came he in this field to glean And in whose hire? |