Harvest Moon


I see a field, an upland field of corn

Whose tawny tresses wave and whisper still

Within my heart after so many years:

I hear a lad’s shrill whistling in the morn,

And children’s chatter as they climb the hill,

The farmer’s voice the binder’s rattling gears:

I feel again the sun, for us new-born,

An infant ruddy that soon climbs until

He is mature, and throws his burning spears

Like cinder sparks.  Thus on my soul are worn

Time’s medals bright; but chief amongst them all,

A night of scented gold and purple deep.

A harvest moon that rides above men’s sleep,

And decades after yet exerts its thrall !


Weekly Times     25.9.60