To reach the border of the tilth, which black
Appear’d behind them as a glebe new-turn’d,
Though golden, sight to be admired by all!
There, too, he form’d the likeness of a field,
Crowded with corn, in which the reapers toil’d
Each with a sharp-tooth’d sickle in his hand.
Along the furrow here the harvest fell
In frequent handfuls, there they bound the sheaves.
Three binders of the sheaves their sultry task
All plied industrious, and behind them boys