Wheat

Behold a billowy sea of golden spears
That to and fro in every breeze that blows
Tosses its amber waves and proudly shows
Bright scarlet poppies when the warm wind veers.
Hearken, and lo! there falls upon the ears
A song as mellow as the one that rose
From Boaz's fields at daytime's drowsy close
And thrilled his heart in those dim Hebrew years.

And the swart mower, leaning on his scythe
To catch the swelling music, clear and blythe,
Thinks, as his eyes with love-light brim and glow,
That she who sings, the while the bright beams fade,
Is far diviner than the lovely maid
Who gleaned in fields Judaean long ago.