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