THE TWO HARVESTS

But yesterday these few and hoary sheaves
Waved in the golden harvest; from the plain
I saw the blade shoot upward, and the grain
Put forth the unripe ear and tender leaves.

Then the glad upland smiled upon the view,
And to the air the broad green leaves unrolled,
A peerless emerald in each silken fold,
And on each palm a pearl of morning dew.

And thus sprang up and ripened in brief space
All that beneath the reaper’s sickle died,
All that smiled beauteous in the summer-tide.

And what are we? a copy of that race,
The later harvest of a longer year!
And oh! how many fall before the ripened ear!