How peacefully the broad and golden moon Comes up to gaze upon the reaper's toil! That they who own the land for many a mile, May bless her beams, and they who take the boon Of scatter'd ears; Oh! beautiful! how soon The dusk is turn'd to silver without soil, Which makes the fair sheaves fairer than at noon, And guides the gleaner to his slender spoil; So, to our souls, the LORD of love and might Sends harvest-hours, when daylight disappears; When age and sorrow, like a coming night, Darken our field of work with doubts and fears, He times the presence of His heavenly light To rise up softly o'er our silver hairs. |