Harvest

Cows in the stall and sheep in the fold;

Clouds in the west, deep crimson and gold;

A heron's far flight to a roost somewhere;

The twitter of killdees keen in the air;

The noise of a wagon that jolts through the gloam

On the last load home.

There are lights in the windows; a blue spire of smoke

Climbs from the grange grove of elm and oak.

The smell of the Earth, where the night pours to her

Its dewy libation, is sweeter than myrrh,

And an incense to Toil is the smell of the loam

On the last load home.