THE SONG OF THE SICKLE 



The odors sweet, 

 * Of the yellow wheat, 

 Are afloat on the morning air; 



And the sickle's trill 



O'er vale and hill 

 Makes music everywhere. 



There's health and bliss 



In the morning's kiss, 

 And the pulses throb and throng; 



While music floats 



O'er silver oats, 

 Where sounds the sickle's song. 



The sickle's song 



I would prolong, 

 Till war songs hush and die, 



Till peace of mind 



All men shall find 

 Under the harvest sky. 



