Harvest
Far, where the sun hath set,
Sang the windy corn
By the lute of thorn—
The time of harvest.
The shrubbery by the way,
Yellow waste, a path
With a tinge of grass—
All woven in decay.
O Autumn, father, betrayer!—
When I have strolled along
Upon this, thy prayer,
The comfort outlying among.
Sang the windy corn
By the lute of thorn—
The time of harvest.
The shrubbery by the way,
Yellow waste, a path
With a tinge of grass—
All woven in decay.
O Autumn, father, betrayer!—
When I have strolled along
Upon this, thy prayer,
The comfort outlying among.
Translation:
Language:
Reviews
No reviews yet.