Messidor

Put in the sickles and reap;     For the morning of harvest is red,     And the long large ranks of the corn     Coloured and clothed as the morn     Stand thick in the fields and deep     For them that faint to be fed.     Let all that hunger and weep     Come hither, and who would have bread     Put in the sickles and reap.     Coloured and clothed as the morn,     The grain grows ruddier than gold,     And the good strong sun is alight     In the mists of the day-dawn white,     And the crescent, a faint sharp horn,     In the fear of his face turns cold     As the snakes of the night-time that creep     From the flag of our faith unrolled.     Put in the sickles and reap.     In the mists of the day-dawn white     That roll round the morning star,     The large flame lightens and grows     Till the red-gold harvest-rows,     Full-grown, are full of the light     As the spirits of strong men are,     Crying, Who shall slumber or sleep?     Who put back morning or mar?     Put in the sickles and reap.     Till the red-gold harvest-rows     For miles through shudder and shine     In the winds breath, fed with the sun,     A thousand spear-heads as one     Bowed as for battle to close     Line in rank against line     With place and station to keep     Till all mens hands at a sign     Put in the sickles and reap.     A thousand spear-heads as one     Wave as with swing of the sea     When the mid tide sways at its height;     For the hour is for harvest or fight     In face of the just calm sun,     As the signal in season may be     And the lot in the helm may leap     When chance shall shake it; but ye,     Put in the sickles and reap.     For the hour is for harvest or fight     To clothe with raiment of red;     O men sore stricken of hours,     Lo, this one, is not it ours     To glean, to gather, to smite?     Let none make risk of his head     Within reach of the clean scythe-sweep,     When the people that lay as the dead     Put in the sickles and reap.     Lo, this one, is not it ours,     Now the ruins of dead things rattle     As dead mens bones in the pit,     Now the kings wax lean as they sit     Girt round with memories of powers,     With musters counted as cattle     And armies folded as sheep     Till the red blind husbandman battle     Put in the sickles and reap?     Now the kings wax lean as they sit,     The people grow strong to stand;     The men they trod on and spat,     The dumb dread people that sat     As corpses cast in a pit,     Rise up with God at their hand,     And thrones are hurled on a heap,     And strong men, sons of the land,     Put in the sickles and reap.     The dumb dread people that sat     All night without screen for the night,     All day without food for the day,     They shall give not their harvest away,     They shall eat of its fruit and wax fat:     They shall see the desire of their sight,     Though the ways of the seasons be steep,     They shall climb with face to the light,     Put in the sickles and reap.