Opening of the book
The Maiden’s Harvest
There goeth, with the early light,
Across a barren plain,
One who, with face as morning bright,
Singeth, “I come again!
“And every grain I scatter free,
An hundred-fold shall yield,
Till waveth like a golden sea
This dark and barren field.”
She casteth seed upon the ground
From out her pure white hand,
And little winds steal up around
To bear it through the land.
She strikes her harp, she sings her song;
She sings so loud and clear,
“Arise! arise! ye sleeping throng,
And bud and blossom here!”
When o’er the hills she passed away,
The Spring remembered her,
And came, with sun and air of May,
The barren earth to stir.
And dropping dew the spot did love,
And lingered there till noon;
And winds and rains moved on above
In softly-changing tune.
So, when the Autumn cometh round,
The golden heads bend low —
And near and nearer to the ground
Their royal beard doth flow.
The poor rejoice; in throngs they come
To reap the dropping grain; —
Their voices rise in busy hum:
“Who, who hath sowed the plain?
“And who hath wrought such bounteous cheer
Where all before was dead?”
They bless the unseen Giver dear
Who gave this daily bread.
With harp in hand, a maiden bright
Passed slowly by the throng,
With face as fair as sunset light
The maiden sang her song.
“In morning-time I sowed this plain,
Blest may the evening be,
Which gives back every little grain
An hundred-fold to me!”
Song
Oh bird, thou dartest to the sun
When morning beams first spring,
And I, like thee, would swiftly run,
As sweetly would I sing:
Thy burning heart doth draw thee up
Unto the source of fire;
Thou drinkest from its glowing cup,
And quenchest thy desire.
Oh dew, thou droppest soft below,
And pearlest all the ground,
Yet when the noontide comes, I know
Thou never canst be found;
I would like thine had been my birth,
Then I, without a sigh,
Might sleep my night through on the earth,
To waken in the sky.
Oh clouds, ye little tender sheep,
Pastured in fields of blue,
Keep listening free
Readnara
