Walking on the harvest hills of Night
Time’s elder brother, the great husbandman,
Goes on his ancient round. His massive lantern,
Simpler than the first fashion, lights the rows
Of stooks that lean like little golden graves
Or tasselled barges foundering low
In the black stream.
He sees that all is ready,
The trees all stripped, the orchards bare, the nests
Empty. All things grown
Homeless and whole. He sees the hills of grain,
A day all yellow and red, flowers, fruit, and corn.
The soft hair harvest-golden in darkness.
Children playing
In the late night-black day of Time. He sees
The lover standing by the trysting-tree
Who’ll never find his love till all are gathered
In light or darkness. The unnumbered living
Numbered and bound and sheaved.
O could that day
Break on this side of Time!
A wind shakes
The loaded sheaves, the feathery tomb bursts open,
And yellow hair is poured along the ground
From the bent neck of Time. The woods cry:
This is the resurrection.
O little judgment days lost in the dark,
Seen by the bat and screech-owl!
He goes on,
Bearing within his ocean-heart the jewel,
The day all yellow and red wherein a sun
Shines on the endless harvest lands of Time.