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Messidor

Written by: Algernon Charles Swinburne | Biography
 Put in the sickles and reap;
For the morning of harvest is red,
And the long large ranks of the corn
Coloured and clothed as the morn
Stand thick in the fields and deep
For them that faint to be fed.
Let all that hunger and weep Come hither, and who would have bread Put in the sickles and reap.
Coloured and clothed as the morn, The grain grows ruddier than gold, And the good strong sun is alight In the mists of the day-dawn white, And the crescent, a faint sharp horn, In the fear of his face turns cold As the snakes of the night-time that creep From the flag of our faith unrolled.
Put in the sickles and reap.
In the mists of the day-dawn white That roll round the morning star, The large flame lightens and grows Till the red-gold harvest-rows, Full-grown, are full of the light As the spirits of strong men are, Crying, Who shall slumber or sleep? Who put back morning or mar? Put in the sickles and reap.
Till the red-gold harvest-rows For miles through shudder and shine In the wind's breath, fed with the sun, A thousand spear-heads as one Bowed as for battle to close Line in rank against line With place and station to keep Till all men's hands at a sign Put in the sickles and reap.
A thousand spear-heads as one Wave as with swing of the sea When the mid tide sways at its height; For the hour is for harvest or fight In face of the just calm sun, As the signal in season may be And the lot in the helm may leap When chance shall shake it; but ye, Put in the sickles and reap.
For the hour is for harvest or fight To clothe with raiment of red; O men sore stricken of hours, Lo, this one, is not it ours To glean, to gather, to smite? Let none make risk of his head Within reach of the clean scythe-sweep, When the people that lay as the dead Put in the sickles and reap.
Lo, this one, is not it ours, Now the ruins of dead things rattle As dead men's bones in the pit, Now the kings wax lean as they sit Girt round with memories of powers, With musters counted as cattle And armies folded as sheep Till the red blind husbandman battle Put in the sickles and reap? Now the kings wax lean as they sit, The people grow strong to stand; The men they trod on and spat, The dumb dread people that sat As corpses cast in a pit, Rise up with God at their hand, And thrones are hurled on a heap, And strong men, sons of the land, Put in the sickles and reap.
The dumb dread people that sat All night without screen for the night, All day without food for the day, They shall give not their harvest away, They shall eat of its fruit and wax fat: They shall see the desire of their sight, Though the ways of the seasons be steep, They shall climb with face to the light, Put in the sickles and reap.



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