So there's my year, the twelvemonth duly told Since last I climbed this brow and gloated round Upon the lands heaped with their wheaten gold, And now again they spread with wealth imbrowned -- And thriftless I meanwhile, What honeycombs have I to take, what sheaves to pile? I see some shrivelled fruits upon my tree, And gladly would self-kindness feign them sweet; The bloom smelled heavenly, can these stragglers be The fruit of that bright birth? and this wry wheat, Can this be from those spires Which I, or fancy, saw leap to the spring sun's fires? I peer, I count, but anxious is not rich, My harvest is not come, the weeds run high; Even poison-berries ramping from the ditch Have stormed the undefended ridges by; What Michaelmas is mine! The fields I thought to serve, for sturdier tillage pine. But, hush -- Earth's valleys sweet in leisure lie; And I among them wandering up and down Will taste their berries, like the bird or fly, And of their gleanings make both feast and crown. The Sun's eye laughing looks. And Earth accuses none that goes among her stooks. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE VOYAGE TO VINLAND: 3. GUDRIDA'S PROPHECY by JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL GOD'S WORLD by EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY TIRED MOTHERS by MAY LOUISE RILEY SMITH THE OLD MAN'S COMFORTS AND HOW HE GAINED THEM by ROBERT SOUTHEY |