| |
| THE GRAIN is waving far around, | |
| And like a sea it stretches out; | |
| And yet upon the silent ground | |
| No horrid sea-brood lies about. | |
| But here of wreaths the flowers dream, | 5 |
| As they drink in the star-shine blest. | |
| Oh, golden sea, thy peaceful beam | |
| My longing soul absorbs with zest! | |
| |
| There is a custom fair and old | |
| In my own home in valleys green: | 10 |
| When bright the summer starlight’s gold, | |
| When through the bushes fireflies sheen— | |
| Ah, then a whisp’ring, waving gay, | |
| Draws near the ripened field by night, | |
| And through the golden crops there sway | 15 |
| The sickles, gleaming silver-bright. | |
| |
| For, flocking to the field in throngs, | |
| The young and sturdy lads draw near. | |
| The crop they’re seeking that belongs | |
| To widow or to orphan drear | 20 |
| Who kindly help can never know | |
| Of father, brother, servant boy.— | |
| For her the youths her harvest mow; | |
| Their work is graced by purest joy. | |
| |
| Already all the sheaves are bound | 25 |
| And swiftly in a ring they’re laid. | |
| How blithe the fleeting hours were found: | |
| At night-time cool the boys have played! | |
| Now there are songs and revels glad | |
| Among the sheaves, till breath of day | 30 |
| Each brown and never weary lad | |
| To his own labour calls away. | |
| |
