OCR Text |
Show THE HARVESTERS (France, 1914) ' By Edith M. Thomas. Look! the harvest stands unreaped In the silent golden field! Where Is he who should he there, Wont the sickle keen to wield? Look! the vineyard clusters darken, Who is there to store its yield Yester eve, at angelus Ah, how many with us kneeled! Hush! the reaper he is reaped, He is brother to the clod; Not like sheaves can he be raised. And the vintager my God! Is become the vintage heaped, Only waiting to he trod, When the rich wine of nis life Shall be drunken by the sod! Woman, you your land must serve. Breast the silent golden corn; Do not stay for words or tears Till the teeming field be shorn, Till the clusters dark with wine To the presses shall be borne. Him, the valiant, whom you loved, Proudly shall our cross adorn. Hush! the reaper he is reaped! On the breast that breathes no more What avails your honor cross? What avails the harvest store, When the land is stripped of men? Hearts shall thirst and hunger sore. Aye, no blood of grapes shall hearten When the wine of life ye pour! Women, now the corn is ground And the wine is in the cave, Sow the fields and prune the vines; When next summer's harvests wave, Praise be yours, and yours alone, For the bounty that ye gave. Go, be mothers to the soil That is orphaned of the brave. Hush! the reaper he is reaped! Ask that we the soil prepare And the red wine seal away! Grief all fields for us shall bear, Grief the cup that we must drink. And the children of our care Shall be starved for father love Aye, the years of famine fare! |