160 MY DEVON YEAR 



binds and throws forth the sheaves. Wooden arms 

 stretch out of it, wheels whir and glitter within ; 

 the thing toils ceaselessly like a slave, and behind it 

 bundles of corn lie spread along at the harvest edge, 

 and the next swath to fall shivers as though it under- 

 stood that the knife was near. 



Then follows the cart along ; the harvest vanishes ; 

 and the small procumbent flowers, that have dwelt 

 within its depths, stare up bewildered into the eye of 

 the unveiled sun, and hasten to set their little seeds 

 before he has scorched life and power of reproduction 

 out of them. 



