Harold Macdonald's Muse


Wheat Fields Near
the Robinson Spur Cemetery

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Harold Macdonald

Ripened now, the wheat stands in the golden field

Brittle in  the blistering, August sun

Even now the harvest has begun

The end upon us; comes the time of yield.

 

It was too swift the summer-time of growth

The beginning time, of hoping for success

Of fearing worst, anticipating best

A time to dally, play, a time for sloth 

 

And now, though produce is an hundred fold

Abundant wheat to make abundant bread

Abundant good whereby the poor are fed

Yet short the life, too quick the story told.

 

So soon itís over cold winds freezing blow

And, silent, we lie under winterís snow.