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.