Golden Numbers Part 12

And stir all day to pretty tunes The breezes fetch along, And hold the suns.h.i.+ne in its lap And bow to everything;

And thread the dews all night, like pearls, And make itself so fine,-- A d.u.c.h.ess were too common For such a noticing.

And even when it dies, to pa.s.s In odors so divine, As lowly spices gone to sleep, Or amulets of pine.

And then to dwell in sovereign barns, And dream the days away,-- The gra.s.s so little has to do, I wish I were the hay!

EMILY d.i.c.kINSON.

_The Corn-Song_

Heap high the farmer's wintry h.o.a.rd!

Heap high the golden corn!

No richer gift has Autumn poured From out her lavish horn!

Let other lands, exulting, glean The apple from the pine, The orange from its glossy green, The cl.u.s.ter from the vine;

We better love the hardy gift Our rugged vales bestow, To cheer us when the storm shall drift Our harvest-fields with snow.

Through vales of gra.s.s and meads of flowers, Our ploughs their furrows made, While on the hills the sun and showers Of changeful April played.

We dropped the seed o'er hill and plain, Beneath the sun of May, And frightened from our sprouting grain The robber crows away.

All through the long, bright days of June Its leaves grew green and fair, And waved in hot midsummer's noon Its soft and yellow hair.

And now with autumn's moonlit eves, Its harvest-time has come, We pluck away the frosted leaves, And bear the treasure home.

There richer than the fabled gift Apollo showered of old, Fair hands the broken grain shall sift, And knead its meal of gold.

Let vapid idlers loll in silk Around their costly board; Give us the bowl of samp and milk, By homespun beauty poured!

Where'er the wide old kitchen hearth Sends up its smoky curls, Who will not thank the kindly earth, And bless our farmer girls!

Then shame on all the proud and vain, Whose folly laughs to scorn The blessing of our hardy grain, Our wealth of golden corn!

Let earth withhold her goodly root, Let mildew blight the rye, Give to the worm the orchard's fruit, The wheat field to the fly:

But let the good old crop adorn The hills our fathers trod; Still let us for his golden corn, Send up our thanks to G.o.d!

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

_Columbia's Emblem_

Blazon Columbia's emblem The bounteous, golden Corn!

Eons ago, of the great sun's glow And the joy of the earth, 'twas born.

From Superior's sh.o.r.e to Chili, From the ocean of dawn to the west, With its banners of green and silken sheen It sprang at the sun's behest; And by dew and shower, from its natal hour, With honey and wine 'twas fed, Till on slope and plain the G.o.ds were fain To share the feast outspread: For the rarest boon to the land they loved Was the Corn so rich and fair, Nor star nor breeze o'er the farthest seas Could find its like elsewhere.

In their holiest temples the Incas Offered the heaven-sent Maize-- Grains wrought of gold, in a silver fold, For the sun's enraptured gaze; And its harvest came to the wandering tribes As the G.o.ds' own gift and seal, And Montezuma's festal bread Was made of its sacred meal.

Narrow their cherished fields; but ours Are broad as the continent's breast.

And, lavish as leaves, the rustling sheaves Bring plenty and joy and rest; For they strew the plains and crowd the wains When the reapers meet at morn, Till blithe cheers ring and west winds sing A song for the garnered Corn.

The rose may bloom for England, The lily for France unfold; Ireland may honor the shamrock, Scotland her thistle bold; But the s.h.i.+eld of the great Republic, The glory of the West, Shall bear a stalk of the ta.s.seled Corn-- The sun's supreme bequest!

The arbutus and the golden rod The heart of the North may cheer, And the mountain laurel for Maryland Its royal cl.u.s.ters rear, And jasmine and magnolia The crest of the South adorn; But the wide Republic's emblem Is the bounteous, golden Corn!

EDNA DEAN PROCTOR.

_Scythe Song_[8]

Mowers, weary and brown, and blithe, What is the word methinks ye know, Endless over-word that the Scythe Sings to the blades of the gra.s.s below?

Scythes that swing in the gra.s.s and clover, Something, still, they say as they pa.s.s; What is the word that, over and over, Sings the Scythe to the flowers and gra.s.s?

_Hush, ah hush_, the Scythes are saying, _Hush, and heed not, and fall asleep;_ _Hush_, they say to the gra.s.ses swaying, _Hush_, they sing to the clover deep!

_Hush_--'tis the lullaby Time is singing-- _Hush, and heed not, for all things pa.s.s,_ _Hush, ah hus.h.!.+_ and the Scythes are swinging Over the clover, over the gra.s.s!

ANDREW LANG.

[Footnote 8: _By courtesy of Longmans, Green & Co._]

_Time to Go_

They know the time to go!

The fairy clocks strike their inaudible hour In field and woodland, and each punctual flower Bows at the signal an obedient head And hastes to bed.

The pale Anemone Glides on her way with scarcely a good-night; The Violets tie their purple nightcaps tight; Hand clasped in hand, the dancing Columbines, In blithesome lines,

Drop their last courtesies, Flit from the scene, and couch them for their rest; The Meadow Lily folds her scarlet vest And hides it 'neath the Gra.s.ses' lengthening green; Fair and serene,

Her sister Lily floats On the blue pond, and raises golden eyes To court the golden splendor of the skies,-- The sudden signal comes, and down she goes To find repose

In the cool depths below.

A little later, and the Asters blue Depart in crowds, a brave and cheery crew; While Golden-rod, still wide awake and gay, Turns him away,

Furls his bright parasol, And, like a little hero, meets his fate.

The Gentians, very proud to sit up late, Next follow. Every Fern is tucked and set 'Neath coverlet, Downy and soft and warm.

No little seedling voice is heard to grieve Or make complaints the folding woods beneath; No lingerer dares to stay, for well they know The time to go.

Teach us your patience, brave, Dear flowers, till we shall dare to part like you, Willing G.o.d's will, sure that his clock strikes true, That his sweet day augurs a sweeter morrow, With smiles, not sorrow.

SUSAN COOLIDGE.

_The Death of the Flowers_[9]

The melancholy days have come, the saddest of the year, Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sere.