The Harvester

MY harvest strews the white sea-sand;
The storm-wind is my scythe and flail;
Though skies be dark, and wild the strand,
My harvests never fail.
I roam at large in greener fields,
Where clover-beds are smoothly mown,
And learn my bitter fruitage yields
A glory all its own.
I need not pray fair wind and showers,
Nor long for white or purple bloom ;
The tempest brings me varied flowers,
Torn from the deep sea’s womb.
Dark is their hue to others’ eye,
And shattered is their plumy head ;
I only know for life they die,
And live for others, dead.