u 
Whatsoever a man someth that shall he also rea~p.’ ; 
\ 
What shall the Harvest he ? 
hat is the yield of the harvest-field'? 
Grain or stubble? sad or sweet?— 
When the sickle goes through the 
ripening rows 
Of corn and wheat ? 
Fed alike by the sun and shower, 
The dew of evening and morning hour, 
By fervent kisses of fevered noon, 
By soft embaces of pallid moon, 
As light and darkness extend their hands 
Over the smiling meadow lands, 
At touch of the sickle the crowned 
heads fall 
Whether the yield be great or small. 
Whether the sun and the rain distilled 
Their sweets, and their bounteous 
work fulfilled; 
And whether the skies do ill or well. 
Our barns will tell. 
What is the yield of the harvest-field? 
Joy or sorrow? bliss or bane?— 
When up in the sky the moon sails by 
With starry train? 
The August moon, that has gathered in 
Summer splendor to fill its bin, 
Now shining down on the meadows 
bare 
After the reapers have gathered there, 
Seems to question with eager gaze 
The faithful record of Summer days. 
What need hath the earth to make reply 
When the moon looks out of the tear- 
washed sky? 
For the seams and scars on its rugged breast 
Speak plainly and truly, ‘ ‘I’ve done 
my best; 
But oh! not here is written the yield 
Of harvest-field!” 
"What is the yield of the harvest-field ? 
Grain or stubble?” ever thus, 
/ , 
In the moonlight clear do we voic'es hear 
Questioning us. 
What did we sow in the early spring. 
With life at its sweetest blossoming, 
That deep in the soil has taken root 
To bring forth flowers or perfect fruit ? 
Alas! if we only have thought to sow 
The weeds that grow as the rushes grow. 
What will the angle above us write 
In the solemn calm of an Autumn night, 
When the harvest moon in its silver rays 
Folds the glory of summer days? 
If love we have sown, no need to weep; 
Love we shall reap. 
demorest’s magazine. 
