Harvest
Cows in the stall and sheep in the fold;Clouds in the west, deep crimson and gold;A heron’s far flight to a roost somewhere;The twitter of killdees keen in the air;The noise of a wagon that jolts through the gloamOn the last load home.
There are lights in the windows; a blue spire of smokeClimbs from the grange grove of elm and oak.The smell of the Earth, where the night pours to herIts dewy libation, is sweeter than myrrh,And an incense to Toil is the smell of the loamOn the last load home.