It is the harvest, on the fields
Hovers a tremulous haze of heat ...
The sharpened scythe each labourer wields
Gleams silver in the golden wheat.

The level landscape spreads away —
The sky folds over like a flower,
Whose petal tips of purple grey
Flush flame-like at the sunset hour.

The swallows flash above our heads
In undulating curves of flight.
A delicate dance the south wind treads
Between the shadows and the light. . . .

And poplar trees on either hand
Lilt out leaf music as we pass. ...
Only the aureoled daisies stand
And stir not, in the tangled grass. . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .