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Show HARVEST SONG. By Eleanor Alexander. East and West the Mother calls "Come, my children, to the feast In my low-roofed Western halls, Under high domes of the East I have spread on hill and dale Golden cloth of corn and wheat, Harvests that shall never fail, Garment that no moth can fret. I have strung my purple beads On the necklace of the vine; I have hung my silver seeds Like the lamps about a shrine. I have laid the straining root To my heart below the clay; I have held the mellow fruit To the crimson cheek of day. I have charmed the fetid pools Till they rocked my feathered rice; And the worms have been my tools, And the morsels of the Ice. I have conjured from- .tne sod Of the steppes onohanted grain; And far off, the river god Has for pipes my sugar cane. I have forced a precious yield From the shades of Egypt's tombs; On Manchuria's yellow field I have toBsed my millet plumes." J East and West the mother calls "Come, my children, to the feast In my latest banquet halls Of the sunrise in the East I" East and West the children come BB Proudly with uplifted head, B To the hum of battle drum, iH Thus they scorn the Moth?. H bread 9 "From the clouded mountain tops, "IM From the valleys of the main, WM Lo! a store of goodlier crops M That shall clothe your empty pla 19 By the hillside and the gorge, m For your cloth of tarnished gold -ftg As it fell from Vulcan's forge fl See the sheet of steel unrolled, wi i You have wept and waited long ,J In the darkness out of sight, fl But our harvest tall and strong -J Shall be raised up in a night. 19 For harmonious shepherd's pipe 'M We shall have a war god's lyre. JH He will reap the increase ripe ra With the sickle of his fire. M Gently were your sheaves laid low, jB Like the sighing of a breeze; 1m But our sturdier growth shall go in With the crash of forest trees. 9 We will string you purple beads, :ra Drop3 from hearts that proudly L W And our flowers of mighty deeds jS Shall be crimson as the sky." S "Children, hush!" the mother sighs 8 For their harvest lost and vain ji "Where the tree falls there it lies JB But my harvests come again." ; St. Louis Mirror J& |