BEFORE HARVEST.

And now‘ tis time for Harvest. Hark! and lo,

With ringing sound of full melodious horn,

Over yon eastern hill-top all aglow,—

Her sickle gleaming in the golden morn,

Her arm upraised with sheaf of yellow corn,—

She comes elate with light, elastic pace;

Her neck and zone full-clustered vines adorn;

Her saffron locks, fruit-crowned; her luscious grace;

Her round and ripened form; her fair, benignant face.

And now the fields, when suns serenely greet,

A rich and mellow, wanton joy afford:

The russet pease vines, and the burnished wheat

And whiter barley,— hating to be stored,

Guarding with jealous spears their precious hoard,—

The tapering oat-stalk, dangling beads of gold:

In brilliant sea of beauty all outpoured,

With dazzling depth of splendor all untold,

Where fleets of zephyrs skip in fold that follows fold

Like to a dream I had but yesternight,

Of pure, transporting, childlike playfulness,

The presence of a fair-haired, blue-eyed, bright,

Thoughtless and laughing.— Words can not express

In poet phrase the fulness that did bless

Entrancingly my vision. I advanced

Behind to worship. Straight each golden tress

Was ruffled and about my face they danced,

Smoth'ring with beauty, while the maiden gleeful glanced.