<h2><SPAN name="page197"></SPAN><span class="pagenum"></span>MESSIDOR</h2>
<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Put</span> in the sickles
and reap;<br/>
For the morning of harvest is red,<br/>
And the long large ranks of the
corn<br/>
Coloured and clothed as the
morn<br/>
Stand thick in the fields and deep<br/>
For them that faint to be fed.<br/>
Let all that hunger and weep<br/>
Come hither, and who would have bread<br/>
Put in the sickles and reap.</p>
<p class="poetry">Coloured and clothed as the morn,<br/>
The grain grows ruddier than gold,<br/>
And the good strong sun is
alight<br/>
In the mists of the day-dawn
white,<br/>
And the crescent, a faint sharp horn,<br/>
In the fear of his face turns cold<br/>
As the snakes of the night-time that creep<br/>
From the flag of our faith unrolled.<br/>
Put in the sickles and reap.</p>
<p class="poetry">In the mists of the day-dawn white<br/>
That roll round the morning star,<br/>
The large flame lightens and
grows<br/>
Till the red-gold harvest-rows,<br/>
Full-grown, are full of the light<br/>
<SPAN name="page198"></SPAN><span class="pagenum">p.
198</span>As the spirits of strong men are,<br/>
Crying, Who shall slumber or sleep?<br/>
Who put back morning or mar?<br/>
Put in the sickles and reap.</p>
<p class="poetry">Till the red-gold harvest-rows<br/>
For miles through shudder and shine<br/>
In the wind’s breath, fed
with the sun,<br/>
A thousand spear-heads as one<br/>
Bowed as for battle to close<br/>
Line in rank against line<br/>
With place and station to keep<br/>
Till all men’s hands at a sign<br/>
Put in the sickles and reap.</p>
<p class="poetry">A thousand spear-heads as one<br/>
Wave as with swing of the sea<br/>
When the mid tide sways at its
height;<br/>
For the hour is for harvest or
fight<br/>
In face of the just calm sun,<br/>
As the signal in season may be<br/>
And the lot in the helm may leap<br/>
When chance shall shake it; but ye,<br/>
Put in the sickles and reap.</p>
<p class="poetry">For the hour is for harvest or fight<br/>
To clothe with raiment of red;<br/>
O men sore stricken of hours,<br/>
<SPAN name="page199"></SPAN><span class="pagenum"></span>Lo, this one, is not it ours<br/>
To glean, to gather, to smite?<br/>
Let none make risk of his head<br/>
Within reach of the clean scythe-sweep,<br/>
When the people that lay as the dead<br/>
Put in the sickles and reap.</p>
<p class="poetry">Lo, this one, is not it ours,<br/>
Now the ruins of dead things rattle<br/>
As dead men’s bones in the
pit,<br/>
Now the kings wax lean as they
sit<br/>
Girt round with memories of powers,<br/>
With musters counted as cattle<br/>
And armies folded as sheep<br/>
Till the red blind husbandman battle<br/>
Put in the sickles and reap?</p>
<p class="poetry">Now the kings wax lean as they sit,<br/>
The people grow strong to stand;<br/>
The men they trod on and spat,<br/>
The dumb dread people that sat<br/>
As corpses cast in a pit,<br/>
Rise up with God at their hand,<br/>
And thrones are hurled on a heap,<br/>
And strong men, sons of the land,<br/>
Put in the sickles and reap.</p>
<p class="poetry">The dumb dread people that sat<br/>
All night without screen for the night,<br/>
All day without food for the
day,<br/>
They shall give not their harvest
away,<br/>
They shall eat of its fruit and wax fat:<br/>
They shall see the desire of their sight,<br/>
Though the ways of the seasons be steep,<br/>
They shall climb with face to the light,<br/>
Put in the sickles and reap.</p>
<div style="break-after:column;"></div><br />
1 of 2
2 of 2
Previous
Next
Update Required
To play the media you will need to either update your browser to a recent version or update your Flash plugin.