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Best Famous Sickles Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Sickles poems. This is a select list of the best famous Sickles poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Sickles poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of sickles poems.

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Written by Duncan Campbell Scott | Create an image from this poem

The Harvest

 Sun on the mountain,
Shade in the valley,
Ripple and lightness
Leaping along the world,
Sun, like a gold sword
Plucked from the scabbard,
Striking the wheat-fields,
Splendid and lusty,
Close-standing, full-headed,
Toppling with plenty;
Shade, like a buckler
Kindly and ample,
Sweeping the wheat-fields
Darkening and tossing;
There on the world-rim
Winds break and gather
Heaping the mist
For the pyre of the sunset;
And still as a shadow,
In the dim westward,
A cloud sloop of amethyst
Moored to the world
With cables of rain.
Acres of gold wheat Stir in the sunshine, Rounding the hill-top, Crested with plenty, Filling the valley, Brimmed with abundance, Wind in the wheat-field Eddying and settling, Swaying it, sweeping it, Lifting the rich heads, Tossing them soothingly Twinkle and shimmer The lights and the shadowings, Nimble as moonlight Astir in the mere.
Laden with odors Of peace and of plenty, Soft comes the wind From the ranks of the wheat-field, Bearing a promise Of harvest and sickle-time, Opulent threshing-floors Dusty and dim With the whirl of the flail, And wagons of bread, Sown-laden and lumbering Through the gateways of cities.
When will the reapers Strike in their sickles, Bending and grasping, Shearing and spreading; When will the gleaners Searching the stubble Take the last wheat-heads Home in their arms ? Ask not the question! - Something tremendous Moves to the answer.
Hunger and poverty Heaped like the ocean Welters and mutters, Hold back the sickles! Millions of children Born to their mothers' womb, Starved at the nipple, cry,-- Ours is the harvest! Millions of women Learned in the tragical Secrets of poverty, Sweated and beaten, cry,-- Hold back the sickles! Millions of men With a vestige of manhood, Wild-eyed and gaunt-throated, Shout with a leonine Accent of anger, Leaves us the wheat-fields! When will the reapers Strike in their sickles? Ask not the question; Something tremendous Moves to the answer.
Long have they sharpened Their fiery, impetuous Sickles of carnage, Welded them aeons Ago in the mountains Of suffering and anguish; Hearts were their hammers Blood was their fire, Sorrow their anvil, (Trusty the sickle Tempered with tears;) Time they had plenty- Harvests and harvests Passed them in agony, Only a half-filled Ear for their lot; Man that has taken God for a master Made him a law, Mocked him and cursed him, Set up this hunger, Called it necessity, Put in the blameless mouth Juda's language: The poor ye have with you Always, unending.
But up from the impotent Anguish of children, Up from the labor Fruitless, unmeaning, Of millions of mothers, Hugely necessitous, Grew by a just law Stern and implacable, Art born of poverty, The making of sickles Meet for the harvest.
And now to the wheat-fields Come the weird reapers Armed with their sickles, Whipping them keenly In the fresh-air fields, Wild with the joy of them, Finding them trusty, Hilted with teen.
Swarming like ants, The Idea for captain, No banners, no bugles, Only a terrible Ground-bass of gathering Tempest and fury, Only a tossing Of arms and of garments; Sexless and featureless, (Only the children Different among them, Crawling between their feet, Borne on their shoulders;) Rolling their shaggy heads Wild with the unheard-of Drug of the sunshine; Tears that had eaten The half of their eyelids Dry on their cheeks; Blood in their stiffened hair Clouted and darkened; Down in their cavern hearts Hunger the tiger, Leaping, exulting; Sighs that had choked them Burst into triumphing; On they come, Victory! Up to the wheat-fields, Dreamed of in visions Bred by the hunger, Seen for the first time Splendid and golden; On they come fluctuant, Seething and breaking, Weltering like fire In the pit of the earthquake, Bursting in heaps With the sudden intractable Lust of the hunger: Then when they see them- The miles of the harvest White in the sunshine, Rushing and stumbling, With the mighty and clamorous Cry of a people Starved from creation, Hurl themselves onward, Deep in the wheat-fields, Weeping like children, After ages and ages, Back at the mother the earth.
Night in the valley, Gloom on the mountain, Wind in the wheat, Far to the southward The flutter of lightning, The shudder of thunder; But high at the zenith, A cluster of stars Glimmers and throbs In the gasp of the midnight, Steady and absolute, Ancient and sure


Written by Vladimir Mayakovsky | Create an image from this poem

Back Home

 Thoughts, go your way home.
Embrace, depths of the soul and the sea.
In my view, it is stupid to be always serene.
My cabin is the worst of all cabins - All night above me Thuds a smithy of feet.
All night, stirring the ceiling’s calm, dancers stampede to a moaning motif: “Marquita, Marquita, Marquita my darling, why won’t you, Marquita, why won’t you love me …” But why Should marquita love me?! I have no francs to spare.
And Marquita (at the slightest wink!) for a hundred francs she’d be brought to your room.
The sum’s not large - just live for show - No, you highbrow, ruffling your matted hair, you would thrust upon her a sewing machine, in stitches scribbling the silk of verse.
Proletarians arrive at communism from below - by the low way of mines, sickles, and pitchforks - But I, from poetry’s skies, plunge into communism, because without it I feel no love.
Whether I’m self-exiled or sent to mamma - the steel of words corrodes, the brass of the brass tarnishes.
Why, beneath foreign rains, must I soak, rot, and rust? Here I recline, having gone oversea, in my idleness barely moving my machine parts.
I myself feel like a Soviet factory, manufacturing happiness.
I object to being torn up, like a flower of the fields, after a long day’s work.
I want the Gosplan to sweat in debate, assignning me goals a year ahead.
I want a commissar with a decree to lean over the thought of the age.
I want the heart to earn its love wage at a specialist’s rate.
I want the factory committee to lock My lips when the work is done.
I want the pen to be on a par with the bayonet; and Stalin to deliver his Politbureau reports about verse in the making as he would about pig iron and the smelting of steel.
“That’s how it is, the way it goes … We’ve attained the topmost level, climbing from the workers’ bunks: in the Union of Republics the understanding of verse now tops the prewar norm …” Transcribed: by Mitch Abidor.
Written by Sidney Lanier | Create an image from this poem

The Hard Times In Elfland

 A Story of Christmas Eve.
Strange that the termagant winds should scold The Christmas Eve so bitterly! But Wife, and Harry the four-year-old, Big Charley, Nimblewits, and I, Blithe as the wind was bitter, drew More frontward of the mighty fire, Where wise Newfoundland Fan foreknew The heaven that Christian dogs desire -- Stretched o'er the rug, serene and grave, Huge nose on heavy paws reclined, With never a drowning boy to save, And warmth of body and peace of mind.
And, as our happy circle sat, The fire well capp'd the company: In grave debate or careless chat, A right good fellow, mingled he: He seemed as one of us to sit, And talked of things above, below, With flames more winsome than our wit, And coals that burned like love aglow.
While thus our rippling discourse rolled Smooth down the channel of the night, We spoke of Time: thereat, one told A parable of the Seasons' flight.
"Time was a Shepherd with four sheep.
In a certain Field he long abode.
He stood by the bars, and his flock bade leap One at a time to the Common Road.
"And first there leapt, like bird on wing, A lissome Lamb that played in the air.
I heard the Shepherd call him `Spring': Oh, large-eyed, fresh and snowy fair "He skipped the flowering Highway fast, Hurried the hedgerows green and white, Set maids and men a-yearning, passed The Bend, and gamboll'd out of sight.
"And next marched forth a matron Ewe (While Time took down a bar for her), Udder'd so large 'twas much ado E'en then to clear the barrier.
"Full softly shone her silken fleece What stately time she paced along: Each heartsome hoof-stroke wrought increase Of sunlight, substance, seedling, song, "In flower, in fruit, in field, in bird, Till the great globe, rich fleck'd and pied, Like some large peach half pinkly furred, Turned to the sun a glowing side "And hung in the heavenly orchard, bright, None-such, complete.
Then, while the Ewe Slow passed the Bend, a blur of light, The Shepherd's face in sadness grew: "`Summer!' he said, as one would say A sigh in syllables.
So, in haste (For shame of Summer's long delay, Yet gazing still what way she paced), "He summoned Autumn, slanting down The second bar.
Thereover strode A Wether, fleeced in burning brown, And largely loitered down the Road.
"Far as the farmers sight his shape Majestic moving o'er the way, All cry `To harvest,' crush the grape, And haul the corn and house the hay, "Till presently, no man can say, (So brown the woods that line that end) If yet the brown-fleeced Wether may, Or not, have passed beyond the Bend.
"Now turn I towards the Shepherd: lo, An aged Ram, flapp'd, gnarly-horn'd, With bones that crackle o'er the snow, Rheum'd, wind-gall'd, rag-fleec'd, burr'd and thorn'd.
"Time takes the third bar off for him, He totters down the windy lane.
'Tis Winter, still: the Bend lies dim.
O Lamb, would thou wouldst leap again!" Those seasons out, we talked of these: And I (with inward purpose sly To shield my purse from Christmas trees And stockings and wild robbery When Hal and Nimblewits invade My cash in Santa Claus's name) In full the hard, hard times surveyed; Denounced all waste as crime and shame; Hinted that "waste" might be a term Including skates, velocipedes, Kites, marbles, soldiers, towers infirm, Bows, arrows, cannon, Indian reeds, Cap-pistols, drums, mechanic toys, And all th' infernal host of horns Whereby to strenuous hells of noise Are turned the blessed Christmas morns; Thus, roused -- those horns! -- to sacred rage, I rose, forefinger high in air, When Harry cried (SOME war to wage), "Papa, is hard times ev'ywhere? "Maybe in Santa Claus's land It isn't hard times none at all!" Now, blessed Vision! to my hand Most pat, a marvel strange did fall.
Scarce had my Harry ceased, when "Look!" He cried, leapt up in wild alarm, Ran to my Comrade, shelter took Beneath the startled mother's arm.
And so was still: what time we saw A foot hang down the fireplace! Then, With painful scrambling scratched and raw, Two hands that seemed like hands of men Eased down two legs and a body through The blazing fire, and forth there came Before our wide and wondering view A figure shrinking half with shame, And half with weakness.
"Sir," I said, -- But with a mien of dignity The seedy stranger raised his head: "My friends, I'm Santa Claus," said he.
But oh, how changed! That rotund face The new moon rivall'd, pale and thin; Where once was cheek, now empty space; Whate'er stood out, did now stand in.
His piteous legs scarce propped him up: His arms mere sickles seemed to be: But most o'erflowed our sorrow's cup When that we saw -- or did not see -- His belly: we remembered how It shook like a bowl of jelly fine: An earthquake could not shake it now; He HAD no belly -- not a sign.
"Yes, yes, old friends, you well may stare: I HAVE seen better days," he said: "But now, with shrinkage, loss and care, Your Santa Claus scarce owns his head.
"We've had such hard, hard times this year For goblins! Never knew the like.
All Elfland's mortgaged! And we fear The gnomes are just about to strike.
"I once was rich, and round, and hale.
The whole world called me jolly brick; But listen to a piteous tale.
Young Harry, -- Santa Claus is sick! "'Twas thus: a smooth-tongued railroad man Comes to my house and talks to me: `I've got,' says he, `a little plan That suits this nineteenth century.
"`Instead of driving, as you do, Six reindeer slow from house to house, Let's build a Grand Trunk Railway through From here to earth's last terminus.
"`We'll touch at every chimney-top (An Elevated Track, of course), Then, as we whisk you by, you'll drop Each package down: just think, the force "`You'll save, the time! -- Besides, we'll make Our millions: look you, soon we will Compete for freights -- and then we'll take Dame Fortune's bales of good and ill "`(Why, she's the biggest shipper, sir, That e'er did business in this world!): Then Death, that ceaseless Traveller, Shall on his rounds by us be whirled.
"`When ghosts return to walk with men, We'll bring 'em cheap by steam, and fast: We'll run a Branch to heaven! and then We'll riot, man; for then, at last "`We'll make with heaven a contract fair To call, each hour, from town to town, And carry the dead folks' souls up there, And bring the unborn babies down!' "The plan seemed fair: I gave him cash, Nay, every penny I could raise.
My wife e'er cried, `'Tis rash, 'tis rash:' How could I know the stock-thief's ways? "But soon I learned full well, poor fool! My woes began, that wretched day.
The President plied me like a tool.
In lawyer's fees, and rights of way, "Injunctions, leases, charters, I Was meshed as in a mighty maze.
The stock ran low, the talk ran high: Then quickly flamed the final blaze.
"With never an inch of track -- 'tis true! The debts were large .
.
.
the oft-told tale.
The President rolled in splendor new -- He bought my silver at the sale.
"Yes, sold me out: we've moved away.
I've had to give up everything.
My reindeer, even, whom I .
.
.
pray, Excuse me" .
.
.
here, o'er-sorrowing, Poor Santa Claus burst into tears, Then calmed again: "my reindeer fleet, I gave them up: on foot, my dears, I now must plod through snow and sleet.
"Retrenchment rules in Elfland, now; Yes, every luxury is cut off.
-- Which, by the way, reminds me how I caught this dreadful hacking cough: "I cut off the tail of my Ulster furred To make young Kris a coat of state.
That very night the storm occurred! Thus we became the sport of Fate.
"For I was out till after one, Surveying chimney-tops and roofs, And planning how it could be done Without my reindeers' bouncing hoofs.
"`My dear,' says Mrs.
Claus, that night (A most superior woman she!) `It never, never can be right That you, deep-sunk in poverty, "`This year should leave your poor old bed, And trot about, bent down with toys, (There's Kris a-crying now for bread!) To give to other people's boys.
"`Since you've been out, the news arrives The Elfs' Insurance Company's gone.
Ah, Claus, those premiums! Now, our lives Depend on yours: thus griefs go on.
"`And even while you're thus harassed, I do believe, if out you went, You'd go, in spite of all that's passed, To the children of that President!' "Oh, Charley, Harry, Nimblewits, These eyes, that night, ne'er slept a wink.
My path seemed honeycombed with pits.
Naught could I do but think and think.
"But, with the day, my courage rose.
Ne'er shall my boys, MY boys (I cried), When Christmas morns their eyes unclose, Find empty stockings gaping wide! "Then hewed and whacked and whittled I; The wife, the girls and Kris took fire; They spun, sewed, cut, -- till by and by We made, at home, my pack entire!" (He handed me a bundle, here.
) "Now, hoist me up: there, gently: quick! Dear boys, DON'T look for much this year: Remember, Santa Claus is sick!"
Written by Rudyard Kipling | Create an image from this poem

The Legend of Evil

 I
This is the sorrowful story
 Told when the twilight fails
And the monkeys walk together
 Holding their neighbours' tails: --

"Our fathers lived in the forest,
 Foolish people were they,
They went down to the cornland
 To teach the farmers to play.
"Our fathers frisked in the millet, Our fathers skipped in the wheat, Our fathers hung from the branches, Our fathers danced in the street.
"Then came the terrible farmers, Nothing of play they knew, Only.
.
.
they caught our fathers And set them to labour too! "Set them to work in the cornland With ploughs and sickles and flails, Put them in mud-walled prisons And -- cut off their beautiful tails! "Now, we can watch our fathers, Sullen and bowed and old, Stooping over the millet, Sharing the silly mould, "Driving a foolish furrow, Mending a muddy yoke, Sleeping in mud-walled prisons, Steeping their food in smoke.
"We may not speak to our fathers, For if the farmers knew They would come up to the forest And set us to labour too.
" This is the horrible story Told as the twilight fails And the monkeys walk together Holding their kinsmen's tails.
II 'Twas when the rain fell steady an' the Ark was pitched an' ready, That Noah got his orders for to take the bastes below; He dragged them all together by the horn an' hide an' feather, An' all excipt the Donkey was agreeable to go.
Thin Noah spoke him fairly, thin talked to him sevarely, An' thin he cursed him squarely to the glory av the Lord: -- "Divil take the ass that bred you, and the greater ass that fed you -- Divil go wid you, ye spalpeen!" an' the Donkey went aboard.
But the wind was always failin', an' 'twas most onaisy sailin', An' the ladies in the cabin couldn't stand the stable air; An' the bastes betwuxt the hatches, they tuk an' died in batches, Till Noah said: -- "There's wan av us that hasn't paid his fare!" For he heard a flusteration 'mid the bastes av all creation -- The trumpetin' av elephints an' bellowin' av whales; An' he saw forninst the windy whin he wint to stop the shindy The Divil wid a stable-fork bedivillin' their tails.
The Divil cursed outrageous, but Noah said umbrageous: -- "To what am I indebted for this tenant-right invasion?" An' the Divil gave for answer: -- "Evict me if you can, sir, For I came in wid the Donkey -- on Your Honour's invitation.
"
Written by Stephen Vincent Benet | Create an image from this poem

The Hemp

 (A Virginia Legend.
) The Planting of the Hemp.
Captain Hawk scourged clean the seas (Black is the gap below the plank) From the Great North Bank to the Caribbees (Down by the marsh the hemp grows rank).
His fear was on the seaport towns, The weight of his hand held hard the downs.
And the merchants cursed him, bitter and black, For a red flame in the sea-fog's wrack Was all of their ships that might come back.
For all he had one word alone, One clod of dirt in their faces thrown, "The hemp that shall hang me is not grown!" His name bestrode the seas like Death.
The waters trembled at his breath.
This is the tale of how he fell, Of the long sweep and the heavy swell, And the rope that dragged him down to hell.
The fight was done, and the gutted ship, Stripped like a shark the sea-gulls strip, Lurched blindly, eaten out with flame, Back to the land from where she came, A skimming horror, an eyeless shame.
And Hawk stood upon his quarter-deck, And saw the sky and saw the wreck.
Below, a butt for sailors' jeers, White as the sky when a white squall nears, Huddled the crowd of the prisoners.
Over the bridge of the tottering plank, Where the sea shook and the gulf yawned blank, They shrieked and struggled and dropped and sank, Pinioned arms and hands bound fast.
One girl alone was left at last.
Sir Henry Gaunt was a mighty lord.
He sat in state at the Council board; The governors were as nought to him.
From one rim to the other rim Of his great plantations, flung out wide Like a purple cloak, was a full month's ride.
Life and death in his white hands lay, And his only daughter stood at bay, Trapped like a hare in the toils that day.
He sat at wine in his gold and his lace, And far away, in a bloody place, Hawk came near, and she covered her face.
He rode in the fields, and the hunt was brave, And far away his daughter gave A shriek that the seas cried out to hear, And he could not see and he could not save.
Her white soul withered in the mire As paper shrivels up in fire, And Hawk laughed, and he kissed her mouth, And her body he took for his desire.
The Growing of the Hemp.
Sir Henry stood in the manor room, And his eyes were hard gems in the gloom.
And he said, "Go dig me furrows five Where the green marsh creeps like a thing alive -- There at its edge, where the rushes thrive.
" And where the furrows rent the ground, He sowed the seed of hemp around.
And the blacks shrink back and are sore afraid At the furrows five that rib the glade, And the voodoo work of the master's spade.
For a cold wind blows from the marshland near, And white things move, and the night grows drear, And they chatter and crouch and are sick with fear.
But down by the marsh, where the gray slaves glean, The hemp sprouts up, and the earth is seen Veiled with a tenuous mist of green.
And Hawk still scourges the Caribbees, And many men kneel at his knees.
Sir Henry sits in his house alone, And his eyes are hard and dull like stone.
And the waves beat, and the winds roar, And all things are as they were before.
And the days pass, and the weeks pass, And nothing changes but the grass.
But down where the fireflies are like eyes, And the damps shudder, and the mists rise, The hemp-stalks stand up toward the skies.
And down from the poop of the pirate ship A body falls, and the great sharks grip.
Innocent, lovely, go in grace! At last there is peace upon your face.
And Hawk laughs loud as the corpse is thrown, "The hemp that shall hang me is not grown!" Sir Henry's face is iron to mark, And he gazes ever in the dark.
And the days pass, and the weeks pass, And the world is as it always was.
But down by the marsh the sickles beam, Glitter on glitter, gleam on gleam, And the hemp falls down by the stagnant stream.
And Hawk beats up from the Caribbees, Swooping to pounce in the Northern seas.
Sir Henry sits sunk deep in his chair, And white as his hand is grown his hair.
And the days pass, and the weeks pass, And the sands roll from the hour-glass.
But down by the marsh in the blazing sun The hemp is smoothed and twisted and spun, The rope made, and the work done.
The Using of the Hemp.
Captain Hawk scourged clean the seas (Black is the gap below the plank) From the Great North Bank to the Caribbees (Down by the marsh the hemp grows rank).
He sailed in the broad Atlantic track, And the ships that saw him came not back.
And once again, where the wide tides ran, He stooped to harry a merchantman.
He bade her stop.
Ten guns spake true From her hidden ports, and a hidden crew, Lacking his great ship through and through.
Dazed and dumb with the sudden death, He scarce had time to draw a breath Before the grappling-irons bit deep, And the boarders slew his crew like sheep.
Hawk stood up straight, his breast to the steel; His cutlass made a bloody wheel.
His cutlass made a wheel of flame.
They shrank before him as he came.
And the bodies fell in a choking crowd, And still he thundered out aloud, "The hemp that shall hang me is not grown!" They fled at last.
He was left alone.
Before his foe Sir Henry stood.
"The hemp is grown, and my word made good!" And the cutlass clanged with a hissing whir On the lashing blade of the rapier.
Hawk roared and charged like a maddened buck.
As the cobra strikes, Sir Henry struck, Pouring his life in a single thrust, And the cutlass shivered to sparks and dust.
Sir Henry stood on the blood-stained deck, And set his foot on his foe's neck.
Then from the hatch, where the rent decks slope, Where the dead roll and the wounded grope, He dragged the serpent of the rope.
The sky was blue, and the sea was still, The waves lapped softly, hill on hill, And between one wave and another wave The doomed man's cries were little and shrill.
The sea was blue, and the sky was calm; The air dripped with a golden balm.
Like a wind-blown fruit between sea and sun, A black thing writhed at a yard-arm.
Slowly then, and awesomely, The ship sank, and the gallows-tree, And there was nought between sea and sun -- Nought but the sun and the sky and the sea.
But down by the marsh where the fever breeds, Only the water chuckles and pleads; For the hemp clings fast to a dead man's throat, And blind Fate gathers back her seeds.


Written by John Greenleaf Whittier | Create an image from this poem

Disarmament

 "Put up the sword!" The voice of Christ once more
Speaks, in the pauses of the cannon's roar,
O'er fields of corn by fiery sickles reaped
And left dry ashes; over trenches heaped
With nameless dead; o'er cities starving slow
Under a rain of fire; through wards of woe
Down which a groaning diapason runs
From tortured brothers, husbands, lovers, sons
Of desolate women in their far-off homes
Waiting to hear the step that never comes!
O men and brothers! let that voice be heard.
War fails, try peace; put up the useless sword! Fear not the end.
There is a story told In Eastern tents, when autumn nights grow cold, And round the fire the Mongol shepherds sit With grave responses listening unto it: Once, on the errands of his mercy bent, Buddha, the holy and benevolent, Met a fell monster, huge and fierce of look, Whose awful voice the hills and forests shook, "O son of peace!" the giant cried, "thy fate Is sealed at last, and love shall yield to hate.
" The unarmed Buddha looking, with no trace Of fear and anger, in the monster's face, In pity said, "Poor fiend, even thee I love.
" Lo! as he spake the sky-tall terror sank To hand-breadth size; the huge abhorrence shrank Into the form and fashion of a dove And where the thunder of its rage was heard, Circling above him sweetly sang the bird: "Hate hath no harm for love," so ran the song, "And peace unweaponed conquers every wrong!"
Written by John McCrae | Create an image from this poem

The Harvest Of The Sea

 The earth grows white with harvest; all day long
The sickles gleam, until the darkness weaves
Her web of silence o'er the thankful song
Of reapers bringing home the golden sheaves.
The wave tops whiten on the sea fields drear, And men go forth at haggard dawn to reap; But ever 'mid the gleaners' song we hear The half-hushed sobbing of the hearts that weep.
Written by Algernon Charles Swinburne | Create an image from this poem

Messidor

 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.

Book: Radiant Verses: A Journey Through Inspiring Poetry