Thursday, October 5, 2017

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

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