THE CORN SONG. 



Heap high the farmer's wintry hoard! 



Heap high the golden corn! 

 No richer gift has autumn poured 



From out her lavish horn! 



Let other lands, exulting, glean 



The apple from the pine, 

 The orange from its glossy green, 



The cluster from the vine; 



We better love the hardy gift 



Our ragged vales bestow, 

 To cheer us when the storm shall drift 



Our harvest-fields with snow. 



Through vales of grass and meads of 

 flowers, 



Our ploughs their furrows made, 

 While on the hills the sun and showers 

 Of changeful April played. 



We dropped the seed o'er hill and 

 plain, 



Beneath the sun of May, 

 And frightened from our sprouting 

 grain 



The robber crows away. 



All through the long, bright days of 

 June, 



Its leaves grew green and fair, 

 And waved in hot midsummer's noon 

 Its soft and yellow hair. 



And now, with Autumn's moonlit eves, 



Its harvest time has come, 

 We pluck away the frosted leaves, 



And bear the treasure home. 



Then, richer than the fabled gift 



Apollo showered of old, 

 Fair hands the broken grain shall sift, 



And knead its meal of gold. 



Let vapid idlers loll in silk, 



Around their costly board; 

 Give us the bowl of samp and milk, 



By homespun beauty poured! 



Where'er the wide old kitchen hearth 



Sends up its smoky curls, 

 Who will not thank the kindly earth, 



And bless our farmer girls? 



Then shame on all the proud and vain, 

 Whose folly laughs to scorn 



The blessing of our hardy grain, 

 Our wealth of golden corn! 



Let earth withhold her goodly root, 



Let mildew blight the rye, 

 Give to the worm the orchard's fruit, 



The wheat-field to the fly; 



But let the good old crop adorn 



The hills our fathers trod; 

 Still let us, for his golden corn, 



Send up our thanks to God! 



— John Greenleaf Whittier. 



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