Classic Poem

The corn is in tassel, and each tufted plume
Nods and bows low to his neighbor;
The cornstalks are waving through acres of bloom,
Each leaf is a Saladin's sabre
Which cuts the sweet air with a soft rustling sound,
And shakes the light blossom-dust down to the ground.

The corn is in tassel; the hot August sun
Looks down on his work and rejoices,
Low on the ground golden pumpkin vines run,
The gay birds have muffled their voices.
With heat and with silence comes glad harvest time,
The corn is in tassel, the year at its prime.