Classic Poem

Come , list to a song for the Harvest:
Thanksgiving and honor and praise
For all that the bountiful Giver
Hath given to gladden our days.

For the grain and the corn in their plenty,
For the grapes that were gathered with song;
For pumpkins so brave with their yellow,
They had lived upon sunbeams so long;

For cranberries down in the meadow,
And the buckwheat that flames on the hill,
And blueberries tempting the children
To wander and pick them at will;

For the peaches that blush through their pallor,
Or glow like a pretty quadroon,
As they dream of the sun in the morning,
Or welcome his kisses at noon;

For the sweet-smelling hay and the clover,
That sweeten the breath of the kine;
And the apples that lingered, as dreading
The air and the light to resign.

And not for the fruit-harvest only
We offer our thanks and our praise;
Not less have the leaves and the blossoms
Made better and brighter the days.

The leaves that delight with their greenness,
That soften the heat with their shade,
And rustle so crisply in Autumn,
To startle the lover and maid.

For the blossoms that whiten in May-time
The ground, as with snow, as they fall;
For the flowerets that whisper their meanings
In cottage and hovel and hall.

Ay, thanks for the harvest of Beauty!
For that which the hands cannot hold!
The harvest eyes only can gather,
Which only our hearts can enfold!

We have reaped it on mountain and moorland;
We have gleaned it from meadow and lea;
We have garnered it in from the cloudlands;
We have bound it in sheaves from the sea.

And thanks that the whole of the harvest
Is not for the children of men;
That the birds and the beasts are remembered,
The dwellers in river and fen;

That He giveth them meat in due season,
And heareth their cry when they call,—
The tiniest, weakest among them,
The hugest and strongest of all.

But the song it goes deeper and higher;
There are harvests which eye cannot see:
They ripen on mountains of Duty,
They are reaped by the brave and the free.

And these have been gathered and garnered;
Some golden with honor and gain,
And some as with heart's-blood made ruddy,
The harvests of sorrow and pain.

Alas, for our pitiful singing!
For all it has lasted so long,
The half of our rapture and wonder
Has not been expressed in our song.

But He who is Lord of the Harvest—
The Giver who gladdens our days—
Will know if our hearts are repeating,
Thanksgiving and honor and praise.