Joyful Harvest Full Moon!

In Harvest

Mown meadows skirt the standing wheat; 

I linger, for the hay is sweet, 

New-cut and curing in the sun. 

Like furrows, straight, the windrows run, 

Fallen, gallant ranks that tossed and bent 

When, yesterday, the west wind went 

A-rioting through grass and grain. 

To-day no least breath stirs the plain; 

Only the hot air, quivering, yields 

Illusive motion to the fields 

Where not the slenderest tassel swings. 

Across the wheat flash sky-blue wings; 

A goldfinch dangles from a tall, 

Full-flowered yellow mullein; all 

The world seems turning blue and gold. 

Unstartled, since, even from of old, 

Beauty has brought keen sense of her, 

I feel the withering grasses stir; 

Along the edges of the wheat, 

I hear the rustle of her feet: 

And yet I know the whole sea lies, 

And half the earth, between our eyes. 

SophIe Jewett

1861-1909