Atlanta offering: Poems

by Frances Ellen Watkins Harper

Which flows from the sun’s bright sheen.

I heard the joy of the reapers’ song,

As they gathered golden grain;

Then wearily turned unto my task,

With a lonely sense of pain.

Sadly I turned from the sun’s fierce glare,

And sought the quiet shade,

And over my dim and weary eyes

Sleep’s peaceful fingers strayed.

I dreamed I joined with a restless throng,