122
A SHEAF GLEANED
TO LITTLE JEANNE.
Sitting in a porchway cool,
Sunlight, I see, dying fast,
Twilight hastens on to rule,
Working hours have well-nigh past.
Shadows run across the lands:
But a sower lingers still,
Old, in rags, he patient stands,
Looking on, I feel a thrill.
Black and high, his silhouette
Dominates the furrows deep!
Now to sow the task is set,
Soon shall come a time to reap.
Marches he along the plain
To and fro, and scatters wide
From his hands the precious grain;
Muse I, as I see him stride.
Darkness deepens. Fades the light.
Now his gestures to mine eyes
Are august; and strange,—his height
Seems to touch the starry skies.
