Classic Poem

Harvest Song

I LOVE , I love to see
 Bright steel gleam through the land;
'Tis a goodly sight, but it must be
 In the reaper's tawny hand.

The helmet and the spear
 Are twined with laurel wreath,
But the trophy is wet with the orphan's tear,
 And blood-spots rest beneath.

I love to see the field
 That is moist with purple stain;
But not where bullet, sword, and shield,
 Lie strown with the gory slain.

No, no: 'tis when the sun
 Shoots down his cloudless beams,
Till the rich and bursting juice-drops run
 On the vineyard earth in streams.

My glowing heart beats high
 At the sight of shining gold;
But it is not that which the miser's eye
 Delighteth to behold.

A brighter wealth by far
 Than the deep mine's yellow vein,
Is seen around, in the fair hills crowned
 With sheaves of burnished grain.

Look forth, ye toiling men;
 Though little ye possess,
Be glad that dearth is not on earth,
 To leave that little less.

Let the song of praise be poured,
 In gratitude and joy,
By the rich man, with his garners stored,
 And the ragged gleaner boy.

The feast that warfare gives
 Is not for one alone—
'Tis shared by the meanest släve that lives,
 And the tenant of a throne.

Then glory to the steel
 That shines in the reaper's hand,
And thanks to God, who has blessed the sod,
 And crowns the harvest land!