It was ripe and full and sweet.
“Many and many a sheaf,” he said,
“I have cut in the years gone past;
And many and many a sheaf these arms
On the harvest wains have cast.
But, children dear, I am weary now,
And I think this is—the last.
“Let me rest awhile beneath the tree;
For I like to watch you go,
With sickles bright, through the ripe, full wheat,