Page:Poetry, a magazine of verse, Volume 6 (April-September 1915).djvu/232

 Yet I hear with every stroke I make
 * A demon with me moving;

Bending and bowing, bending and bowing,
 * Gathering in and striking free,

Gripping the sheaf with sickle and knee
 * And laying it down for the tying.

At last! The morning comes at last:
 * The hills are rich with filtered gold,

And through the vales a glory vast
 * In glowing might is swiftly rolled.

And hard my father's hand I hold,
 * And, standing 'midst the gleaming corn,

With him thank Heaven for the morn—
 * With lips that still are gray and cold!

The gates of brass are closed That guard the ivory altar; The great arched rafters frown on thee Who art the harlot's daughter. With lips like a carmine rose, With robes like orchids rare, With breath like spices delicate That languorous pagans bear; With thy petal cheeks aglowing,