Page:The Man with the Hoe, Markham, 1900.djvu/126



A Harvest Song

The gray bulk of the granaries uploom against the sky;

The harvest moon has dwindled—they have housed the corn and rye;

And now the idle reapers lounge against the bolted doors—

Without are hungry harvesters, within enchanted stores.

Lo, they had bread while they were out a-toiling in the sun:

Now they are strolling beggars, for the harvest work is done. 98