Classic Poem

Hark! far in the field over yonder
'Tis the corn-husker merrily sings.
Oh, why is he happy, I wonder,
As the ears in the basket he flings?
As he plucks the dry covers asunder,
And reveals the smooth grain gleaming under,
And the ears in the basket he flings?

“Ah, here is a plump one, and yellow,
And here is another as fine,
And that was more fair than its fellow,
And this has a color divine;”
So his voice, by the distance made mellow,
Has a musical cadence and swell, oh!
A swell and a cadence divine!

Blithe husker, cease not from your singing,
Though my sadness I cannot control;
While the ears you, are carelessly flinging,
I think of the state of my soul—
These words in my brain keep a-ringing:
“What harvest to God am I bringing
Should death tear the husk from my soul?”