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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=368596" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Thoughts In A Wheat-Field</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">IN his wide fields walks the Master, <br>In his fair fields, ripe for harvest, <br>Where the evening sun shines slant-wise <br>On the rich ears heavy bending; <br>Saith the Master: 'It is time.' <br>Though no leaf shows brown decadence, <br>And September's nightly frost-bite <br>Only reddens the horizon, <br>'It is full time,' saith the Master, <br>The wise Master, 'It is time.' </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Lo, he looks. That look compelling <br>Brings his laborers to the harvest; <br>Quick they gather, as in autumn <br>Passage-birds in cloudy eddies <br>Drop upon the seaside fields; <br>White wings have they, and white raiment, <br>White feet shod with swift obedience, <br>Each lays down his golden palm branch, <br>And uprears his sickle shining, <br>'Speak, O Master,--is it time?' </div><div style="margin:10px 0">O'er the field the servants hasten, <br>Where the full-stored ears droop downwards, <br>Humble with their weight of harvest: <br>Where the empty ears wave upward, <br>And the gay tares flaunt in rows: <br>But the sickles, the sharp sickles, <br>Flash new dawn at their appearing, <br>Songs are heard in earth and heaven, <br>For the reapers are the angels, <br>And it is the harvest time. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">O Great Master, are thy footsteps <br>Even now upon the mountains? <br>Are thou walking in thy wheat-field? <br>Are the snowy-wingèd reapers <br>Gathering in the silent air? <br>Are thy signs abroad, the glowing <br>Of the distant sky, blood-reddened,-- <br>And the near fields trodden, blighted, <br>Choked by gaudy tares triumphant,-- <br>Sure, it must be harvest time? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Who shall know the Master's coming? <br>Whether it be at dawn or sunset, <br>When night dews weigh down the wheat-ears, <br>Or while noon rides high in heaven, <br>Sleeping lies the yellow field? <br>Only, may thy voice, Good Master, <br>Peal above the reapers' chorus, <br>And dull sound of sheaves slow falling,-- <br>'Gather all into My garner, <br>For it is My harvest time.'</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Dinah+Maria+Mulock+Craik">Dinah Maria Mulock Craik</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=368596" data-title="Thoughts In A Wheat-Field de Dinah Maria Mulock Craik" data-description="IN his wide fields walks the Master, 
In his fair fields, ripe for harvest, 
Where the evening sun shines slant-wise 
On the rich ears heavy bending; 
Saith the Master: 'It is time.' 
Though no leaf shows brown decadence, 
And September's nightly ..."></div>
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