WHEAT HARVEST 



SUMMER day betwixt dawn 

 and sunrise. White mist 

 wreaths hang about the tree- 

 tops, grass land and clover 

 spread a gray shimmer of dew. 

 In the east a clear shining, with the faintest 

 rose tinge showing through its translucence. 

 There is no breath of air. The big new 

 leaves hang still and stirless, save when 

 some bird in full song flashes in and out. 

 The whole world has voice. From the wood 

 comes the locust's shrilling ; crows wheel and 

 caw in the blue overhead. There is a low 

 call from the bittern, flying straight and swift 

 to her nest in the marsh two miles away, and 

 stealing under and through it the plaintive 

 cry of hungry young hawks from the cradle 

 of sticks high up in the big poplar. Jarring 

 notes these, that serve to accent the flooding 

 melody of robin, bluebird, thrush, and oriole. 

 Surely a thousand throats are attuned in the 

 shelter of hedgerow and thicket, where wild 



