Sonnet: Harvest-Time

In Summer, farmers scythe the harvest fast; Their weary frames from morn till eve stay bent; The produce sheaved is dried in fields so vast; The air with songs of joy from heart is rent. The scorching Sun doesn't bother their tanned skin; Despite their speed, their work is ne’er over; All hands labour, young, old, both kith and kin, For golden harvest, thanking Lord- Giver. The reapers everywhere must work quite hard; There is no time to eat or drink water! Their sweat-drenched land has yielded them reward; The struggle involved ain't a great matter. Each morn they stand and pray to Sun- their God, Without which, there's no food, peasant, landlord.