Harvest Noon

MORN hath its matins, each morn new,
The evening hath its vespers meet;
Nor lacks the noon a service true,
While crickets sing the song of heat.

An hour-long truce the reapers keep
With the mute legions of the grain ;
Through swath and stubble spiders creep,
And web them with a filmy skein.

The bees forget their errantry,
Lapped in the clover white and red ;
The wind, grown faint with luxury,
Leaves the ripe thistle-down unshed :

Still, yonder, on the long, gray road,
It lives, — a momentary gust,
That drives along, with noiseless goad,
A whirling phantom clothed in dust.

The dreams of night? Noon, too, hath dreams;
In fugitive, mysterious bands,
They launch their fleet on quivering streams
That flow above the sun-bright lands !

I see their prows are southward set;
And soon their sails the haven crowd,
By swimming dome and minaret,
And rich pavilion wove of cloud !

Edith M. Thomas.