I NOW all those ancient garners are heaped high Through whose warped siding shot the evening sun In empty summer. Now, the harvest done, On threshing floors, unbound, the gold sheaves lie; The fanning mills their droning burden ply, And fragrant falls of hay the mows o'errun; And, look! the merry bubble from the tun Declares not quite have vintage joys gone by. All fruiteries and granneries -- behold, Full to the eaves! and thankful shalt thou be, Whether with prayer, O man, or careless mirth. But, while thy hands a long spell thou mayst fold, Comes not, sometimes, this quiet thought to thee: The oldest of all garners is the Earth? II Lo, she her thrift is ever harvesting, By wild unfenced or by the garden croft, All summer taking tithe unmarked, and oft She gathers on the very bound of spring; From when frail seed barks first go voyaging, (Charmed back to her, howe'er they sail aloft), To when witch hazel's pallid plumes are doffed, And, too, she hoards what swollen streams may bring. Her store a million, thine a tenth, O man! And all she hath she will most safely keep The harrying winter through -- 'tis but a span. Her harvests are not dead, but hold new birth, And shall in beauty rise -- after a sleep. The oldest of all garners is the Earth. III I did, myself, too lightly hold the thought Till this November eve, when dead leaves stir Around my pathway, and a rainy blur All cheerful color in a veil has caught. Now is my theme with darker meaning fraught: She who outrivals every harvester At last -- not late, she beckons him to her -- He gathered is, with all that he has wrought. So, year by year, mine own she downward drew, And took them to herself to closely keep. What knowest thou, O man? Would that I knew Such harvests are not dead, but hold new birth, And shall in beauty rise -- after a sleep. The oldest of all garners is the Earth. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...FRAGMENTARY BLUE by ROBERT FROST THE CENTER OF GRAVITY by DAVID IGNATOW ENVOYS by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON THE NIGHT MOTHS by EDWIN MARKHAM SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: PENNIWIT, THE ARTIST by EDGAR LEE MASTERS |