  Heap high the farmer's wintry hoard! Heap high the golden corn! No richer gift has Autumn poured From out her lavish horn. Through vales of grass and meads of flowers, Our plows 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. —John Greenleaf Whittier. IN THE CORNFIELD. |
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