The wheat is cut, a bumper yield,
And sunshine falls upon the field
Of stubble, yellow as spun gold.
Where bales of straw lay tightly rolled.
The cricket sings among the weeds,
And tree frogs pipe from slender reeds,
Red clover, wet with dew at dawn,
Tell of a harvest come and gone.
So short that time from blossomed spring
Till combines hum and sickles sing;
So short a time from spring to fall,
To the end of work and the harvest call.
Ideals Thanksgiving 1986