Wheat

Behold a billowy sea of golden spears That to and fro in every breeze that blows Tosses its amber waves and proudly shows Bright scarlet poppies when the warm wind veers. Hearken, and lo! there falls upon the ears A song as mellow as the one that rose From Boaz's fields at daytime's drowsy close And thrilled his heart in those dim Hebrew years. And the swart mower, leaning on his scythe To catch the swelling music, clear and blythe, Thinks, as his eyes with love-light brim and glow, That she who sings, the while the bright beams fade, Is far diviner than the lovely maid Who gleaned in fields Judaean long ago.