From the broad fields, their golden glory shorn,
And sunny uplands, of their beauty reft,
Through the still sunlight of the autumn morn,
And hedgerows, with their lingering jewels left,
By the brown river, through the leafy lanes,
On to the farmsteads move the loaded wains.
The stalwart reaper bears his brightened scythe,
Or tracks the course the great machine has made,
And bonnie lass and lad, sunburnt and lithe,
Round whose straw hats woodbine and poppies fade,
Wake all the meadow land with harvest strains,
Clustering and laughing round the loaded wains.
'Tis soft September nature's harvest yields,
But all through life our ripening fruit we reap,
Now storing violets from sweet April fields,
Now roses that bright July sunshines steep,
Now garnering gray October's sober gains,
Now Christmas hollies pile our loaded wains.
Ah me! how fast the fair spring flowers die,
How summer blossoms perish at the touch,
And Hope and Love in useless sympathy,
Weep for the Faith that gave and lost so much!
From half our sheaves drop out the golden grains,
Small is our portion in the loaded wains.
Yet, ere the mighty Reaper takes it all,
Fling out the seed, and tend it rood by rood;
One ear is full, though hundreds round it fall,
One acre 'mid a mildewed upland good;
Eternity will rear on heavenly plains
The smallest treasure won from loaded wains.
