A silver haze had draped the weald all day,
The sun at noon was but a brighter patch
In slow scarce moving skies of silver grey;
The air was bell-jar still and one could catch,
Clear from the farm, a whole wide field away,
The tumult of the sparrows round the thatch
Of the first stacks; but now their tiny din
Was silenced as the autumn day closed in.
The last piled load went jolting from the field;
Jackets and tools the men had gathered up;
To sort his basket one old fellow kneeled;
One drained a tilted flacket in a cup;
Then in a group they moved; their voices came
Thinly across the field; their forms grew dim;
Bright in the dusk a tiny spurt of flame
Showed one had lit a pipe to comfort him.
Stiffly they went, but cheerful in their mood,
For it was Saturday in harvest time
When pay is good, and rest and savoury food
Would soon restore their spirits to their prime.
Each brisk young lad, plough boy or waggoner,
Will spruce himself and cycle to the town,
Where in bright streets he'll saunter up and down,
Each with his lass, or maybe sit with her,
Smoking his woodbines or his cheap cigar,
Upon the plush seats of a cinema.
The stiff old chaps will rest a bit when they
Have been up to the farm and drawn their pay;
Then in the taproom of the village inn
They'll talk of harvests, past and yet to win;
But by midnight they'll all be sound asleep
While this bared field a vigil wide will keep,
More silent than it was this afternoon,
Beneath Orion and the harvest moon.
Go, harvesters, you mortal players, go:
Your part is played in the old tragedy:
In the recurring seasons' ebb and flow
You've voiced the changing year's antistrophe:
Here on this field where the green flames of
Spring Have sunk to that rich ash you're harvesting.
The limbs you've wearied on this stage to-day
A few brief years shall wither quite away,
But others the old theme will still act on
When you, who wore the masks this day, are gone:
As you yourselves are but the present heirs
Of all Time's immemorial harvesters.
Already you are gone-far down the lane
I hear the chuntering wheels of the piled wain
Grind sharply on a stone; then all is still,
Till at the last, sad as a dead-bell rings,
A gate clangs with a note of final things.
Silent the field is left; another year
Sinks from its apogee; I seem to hear
The rhythmic beat of that sure setting sea
Which mortal men have called Eternity:
Backward and forth the dim years toss, and there
The crests are white with harvest everywhere.