SICKLES sound; On the ground Fast the ripe ears fall; Every maiden's bonnet Has blue blossoms on it: Joy is over all. Sickles ring, Maidens sing To the sickle's sound; Till the moon is beaming, And the stubble gleaming, Harvest songs go round. All are springing, All are singing, Every lisping thing, Man and master meet, From one dish they eat; Each is now a king. Hans and Michael Whet the sickle, Piping merrily. Now they mow; each maiden Soon with sheaves is laden, Busy as a bee. Now the blisses, And the kisses! Now the wit doth flow Till the beer is out; Then, with song and shout, Home they go, yo ho! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...QUA CURSUM VENTUS by ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH AN ODE TO THE RAIN by SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE THE QUANGLE WANGLE'S HAT by EDWARD LEAR WOMAN'S WILL by JOHN GODFREY SAXE EDWIN MORRIS; OR, THE LAKE by ALFRED TENNYSON SONNET: TO SLEEP by WILLIAM WORDSWORTH TREES AND WAVES by AL-ISRA'ILI EMBLEMS OF LOVE: 17. THE DIFFICULT ADVENTURE by PHILIP AYRES |