All the dancing troupes of grain
Which the summer through have been
Tip-a-toe on every plain
Buskined high in flaunting green -
Yielding kisses to the sun,
Reeking not what there should be
Behind his high hot ardency;
Daffing, laughing, turning, swaying,
To the romping wind displaying
Sudden beauties many a one,
Curving limbs and flashing curls,
Like frolic fields of dancing girls -
Now beneath slow austere skies
Have suffered ancient treacheries;
And initiate into grief,
Bowed and silent leans each sheaf,
Bowed and sad in the still air,
Their myriad hands fast locked in prayer.