Harvest Song

MARTHA BAILEY PROCTOR

Out in the fields it is time for the mowing;
White gleams the harvest on hillside and plain,
Out in the fields where the tares, too, are growing,
Seeking to smother the bright yellow grain.

Hail to the reapers! Truth's pure intuitions,
Swiftly they 're passing from God unto men;
Keen are their sickles, all polished and glowing;
Sweetly their harvest song rings through the glen.

Out in the fields it is time for the reaping;
Angels are lighting mortality's pyre,
Gath'ring the ripened grain into the garner,
Burning the chaff with unquenchable fire.

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