<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=417327" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Harvest Song</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">I am a reaper whose muscles set at sundown. All my oats are cradled. <br>But I am too chilled, and too fatigued to bind them. <br>And I hunger. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">I crack a grain between my teeth. I do not taste it. <br>I have been in the fields all day. My throat is dry. <br>I hunger. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">My eyes are caked with dust of oatfields at harvest-time. <br>I am a blind man who stares across the hills, seeking stack'd fields of other harvesters. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">It would be good to see them . . crook'd, split, and iron-ring'd handles of the scythes. It would be good to see them, dust-caked and blind. I hunger. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">(Dusk is a strange fear'd sheath their blades are dull'd in.) <br>My throat is dry. And should I call, a cracked grain like the oats...eoho-- </div><div style="margin:10px 0">I fear to call. What should they hear me, and offer me their grain, oats, or wheat, or corn? I have been in the fields all day. I fear I could not taste it. I fear knowledge of my hunger. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">My ears are caked with dust of oatfields at harvest-time. <br>I am a deaf man who strains to hear the calls of other harvesters whose throats are also dry. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">It would be good to hear their songs . . reapers of the sweet-stalk'd cane, cutters of the corn...even though their throats cracked and the strangeness of their voices deafened me. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">I hunger. My throat is dry. Now that the sun has set and I am chilled, I fear to call. (Eoho, my brothers!) </div><div style="margin:10px 0">I am a reaper. (Eoho!) All my oats are cradled. <br>But I am too fatigued to bind them. And I hunger. <br>I crack a grain. It has no taste to it. <br>My throat is dry... </div><div style="margin:10px 0">O my brothers, I beat my palms, still soft, against the stubble of my harvesting. (You beat your soft palms, too.) My pain is sweet. Sweeter than the oats or wheat or corn. It will not bring me knowledge of my hunger.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Jean+Toomer">Jean Toomer</a><div class=q> <img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share"> <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=417327" data-title="Harvest Song de Jean Toomer" data-description="I am a reaper whose muscles set at sundown. All my oats are cradled. But I am too chilled, and too fatigued to bind them. And I hunger. I crack a grain between my teeth. I do not taste it. I have been in the fields all day. My throat is dry. ..."></div> </div> </div>

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