No More

No more by the light of the harvest moon

Do they glean in the stubble fields;

No more in the sun of the golden noon

The toiler his sickle wields.

In the haste of machines now all too soon

The earth her heavy grain yields.

 

No more the reaper with merry clack,

The horses with patient tread,

Move on their slow and gradual track

Till the sun is sinking red

Beyond the hill, and the carts come back

With children who should be in bed.

 

No more by the light of the harvest moon,

Where it shines upon the sea,

Shall we make our way with whistling tune

And weary with harvestry.

For the young are old, and the old have flown;

Life is not what it used to be.

 

For the hours of joyous labour are gone,

And the glow of the golden grain

No longer tells of a task well done

But of quick returns and gain.

And simple pleasures and carefree fun

Will never return again.

 

Weekly Times  22.9.61