Classic Poem

Like liquid gold the wheat-field lies,
A marvel of yellow and green,
That ripples and runs, that floats and flies,
With the subtle shadows, the change, the sheen
That plays in the golden hair of a girl.
A cloud flies there—
A ripple of amber—a flare
Of light follows after. A swirl
In the hollows like the twinkling feet
Of a fairy waltzer; the colors run
To the westward sun,
Through the deeps of the ripening wheat.

I hear the reapers' far-off hum,
So faint and far it seems the drone
Of bee or beetle, seems to come
From far-off, fragrant, fruity zone,
A land of plenty, where
Toward the sun, as hasting there,
The colors run
Before the wind's feet
In the wheat.

The wild hawk swoops
To his prey in the deeps;
The sunflower droops
To the lazy wave; the wind sleeps;
Then, moving in dazzling links and loops,
A marvel of shadow and shine,
A glory of olive and amber and wine,
Runs the color in the wheat.