My father reaps six feet before
With hairy arms as hard as steel.
I hear the corn as oft of yore
Before his whirlng sickle reel
And, God, what wild, mad horrors steal!—
Bidding me take too long a stride,
And drive my sickle in his aide,
And grind his face beneath my heel.
I dread this brooding, awful morn
With its haunted hush dismaying—
It seems as though pale souls newborn
Our curved wet blades were slaying.
Bending and bowing, bending and bowing,
Gathering in and striking free,
Gripping the sheaf with the sickle and knee
And laying it down for the tying.
My father's beard is grizzled gray—
It trails like mist in heavy wind.
He was three-score yesterday,
And yet I reap six feet behind.
Lean he is, and bent, and lined,
And he has held me many years;
And still I toil in hate and tears,
And still he swears that he is kind.
Ah, God, will morning never break?
I know he is old and loving,
[173]
