THE HARVEST
The perfect, all resplendent moon looks down,
From cloudless realms of blue, upon a scene
Most marvellous,—Earth in her harvest-gown,—
A golden garment, hemmed by darkish green,
Moved by the wandering winds that drink the sweet
Of new-mown clover-fields and tasselled corn;
The sound thereof is as when lovers meet,
And whisper gladness out of hearts love-lorn;—
Her royal robe, to which the world is clinging,
On which the moon and sun smile with delight,
Of which all nature’s minstrels now are singing
In varied melodies, by day and night,—
Earth’s great achievement, loveliest and best,
The golden harvest of the Middle West.
THE REWARD OF EPIMENIDES
When Solon gave to Athens laws, and sought
To cleanse it from pollutions and the crimes
Which dire disasters from the gods had brought,
He called a prophet from the purer clime,
Of sunny Crete, great Epimenides,
The wise, the nymph-begotten, whose long sleep
Had let him into nature’s mysteries,
And things that are for common minds too deep:
He came, and did the work of bard and priest,
That Solon’s code might shine clear as the sun.
And what reward?—The people hardly wist
But offered riches for the service done.
“An olive branch is all I ask,” he said;
That branch is green, though Athen’s glory’s dead.