Whosoever eateth his wheat before it is ripe, must glean ears of corn at the time of harvest.
Saadi in Gulistan (The Rose Garden) (1258), translated by Francis Gladwin
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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Thoughts In A Wheat-Field
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 frost-bite
Only reddens the horizon,
'It is full time,' saith the Master,
The wise Master, 'It is time.'
Lo, he looks. That look compelling
Brings his laborers to the harvest;
Quick they gather, as in autumn
Passage-birds in cloudy eddies
Drop upon the seaside fields;
White wings have they, and white raiment,
White feet shod with swift obedience,
Each lays down his golden palm branch,
And uprears his sickle shining,
'Speak, O Master,--is it time?'
O'er the field the servants hasten,
Where the full-stored ears droop downwards,
Humble with their weight of harvest:
Where the empty ears wave upward,
And the gay tares flaunt in rows:
But the sickles, the sharp sickles,
Flash new dawn at their appearing,
Songs are heard in earth and heaven,
For the reapers are the angels,
And it is the harvest time.
O Great Master, are thy footsteps
Even now upon the mountains?
Are thou walking in thy wheat-field?
Are the snowy-wingèd reapers
Gathering in the silent air?
Are thy signs abroad, the glowing
Of the distant sky, blood-reddened,--
And the near fields trodden, blighted,
Choked by gaudy tares triumphant,--
Sure, it must be harvest time?
Who shall know the Master's coming?
Whether it be at dawn or sunset,
When night dews weigh down the wheat-ears,
Or while noon rides high in heaven,
Sleeping lies the yellow field?
Only, may thy voice, Good Master,
Peal above the reapers' chorus,
And dull sound of sheaves slow falling,--
'Gather all into My garner,
For it is My harvest time.'
poem by Dinah Maria Mulock Craik
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Women's harvest song
I am waving a ripe sunflower,
I am scattering sunflower pollen to the four world-quarters.
I am joyful because of my melons,
I am joyful because of my beans,
I am joyful because of my squashes.
The sunflower waves.
So did the corn wave
When the wind blew against it,
So did my white corn bend
When the red lightning descended upon it,
It trembled as the sunflower
When the rain beat down its leaves.
Great is a ripe sunflower,
And great was the sun above my corn-fields.
His fingers lifted up the corn-ears,
His hands fashioned my melons,
And set my beans full in the pods.
Therefore my heart is happy
And I will lay many blue prayer-sticks at the shrine of Ta-wa.
I will give corn to Ta-wa,
Yellow corn, blue corn, black corn.
I wave the sunflower,
The sunflower heavy with pollen.
I wave it, I turn it, I sing,
Because I am happy.
poem by Amy Lowell
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The day of fortune is like a harvest day, We must be busy when the corn is ripe.
quote by Torquato Tasso
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Harvest Song
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.
I hunger.
My eyes are caked with dust of oatfields at harvest-time.
I am a blind man who stares across the hills, seeking stack'd fields of other harvesters.
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.
(Dusk is a strange fear'd sheath their blades are dull'd in.)
My throat is dry. And should I call, a cracked grain like the oats...eoho--
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.
My ears are caked with dust of oatfields at harvest-time.
I am a deaf man who strains to hear the calls of other harvesters whose throats are also dry.
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.
I hunger. My throat is dry. Now that the sun has set and I am chilled, I fear to call. (Eoho, my brothers!)
I am a reaper. (Eoho!) All my oats are cradled.
But I am too fatigued to bind them. And I hunger.
I crack a grain. It has no taste to it.
My throat is dry...
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.
poem by Jean Toomer
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Reapers
Sun-Tanned men and women, toiling there together;
Seven I count in all, in yon field of wheat,
Where the rich ripe ears in the harvest weather
Glow an orange gold through the sweltering heat.
Busy life is still, sunk in brooding leisure:
Birds have hushed their singing in the hushed tree tops;
Not a single cloud mars the flawless azure;
Not a shadow moves o'er the moveless crops;
In the grassy shallows, that no breath is creasing,
Chestnut-coloured cows in the rushes dank
Stand like cows of bronze, save when they flick the teasing
Flies with switch of tail from each quivering flank.
Nature takes a rest-even her bees are sleeping,
And the silent wood seems a church that's shut;
But these human creatures cease not from their reaping
While the corn stands high, waiting to be cut.
poem by Mathilde Blind
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Sperminator
'sperminator', sperm, man, men, perms, pets, am, in, it, is, eat, tea, tar, seat, era, into, an;
And like the time of the wheat harvest!
But you do really resemble my mother.
'Sperminator', art, part, set, rats, ants, tears, ears, pears, sear, main, same, sore, tore, sort;
And like the time of the wheat harvest!
But you do really resemble my sister.
'Sperminator', ten, tan, nets, neat, near, stream, teams, means, sap, raps, times, mates, sit;
And like the time of the wheat harvest!
But you fo really resemble my brother.
'Sperminator', trips, sip, tips, nips, pins, maps, pans, naps, rear, sport, pots, tapes, pore, as;
And like the time of the wheat harvest!
But you really resemble my friend.
'Sperminator', some, mine, into, spot, reaps, pits, at, rapes, tops, rims, ate, sea, sat, more;
And like the time of the wheat harvest!
But you really resemble my neighbour.
Lone, cone, zone, done, bone, gone, hone, none, pone, tone, sure, cure, pure, lure!
You are now awakened by the tree of love;
And like your love in the land of your muse.
Line, wine, fine, dine, cine, sine, mine, nine, pine, tine, vine, sure, cure, pure, lure!
Jealousy is as crule as the grave! !
And like the hate in the land of your muse.
Wake, fake, lake, take, make, bake, cake, hake, quake, rake, sake, sure, cure, pure, lure!
And like what you are doing now in the dark! !
But your deeds are always notified by your acts.
Thunder, founder, under, bounder, rounder, sounder, sure, cure, pure, lure!
Awakened under the big apple tree;
But your muse is like the sounds of war!
Hour, four, our, sour, pour, dour, jour, lour, tour, your, fuel, cruel, duel, gruel!
But who bore you and brought you forth?
For the bombs are now killing all of us! !
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Waiting On The Wheat Harvest
as you sow brothers sisters so you wheat harvest reap
as a grain of wheat dies germinates bears fruit to heap
Jesus will completely clean up threshing floor gather his wheat
chaff he will burn up with unquenchable fire hell suffering heat
an enemy came in over sowed weeds in among seed wheat
reapers harvest collect weeds burn them saving only wheat
Satan demands sifts men as wheat to blow away in sifting wind
Son of man will send angels to gather chosen ones from ill wind
a grain of wheat falls into the ground dies then bears fruit new life
so hate soul temptation in this world safeguard soul for eternal life
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Corn and Catholics
"What! still those two infernal questions,
That with our meals our slumbers mix --
That spoil our tempers and digestions --
Eternal Corn and Catholics!
Gods! were there ever two such bores?
Nothing else talk'd of night or morn --
Nothing in doors, or out of doors,
But endless Catholics and Corn!
Never was such a brace of pests --
While Ministers, still worse than either,
Skill'd but in feathering their nests,
Plague us with both, and settle neither.
So addled in my cranium meet
Popery and Corn, that oft I doubt,
Whether this year, 'twas bonded Wheat
Or bonded Papists, they let out.
Here, landlords, here, polemics nail you,
Arm'd with all rubbish they can rake up;
Prices and Texts at once assail you --
From Daniel these, and those from Jacob.
And when you sleep, with head still torn
Between the two, their shapes you mix,
Till sometimes Catholics seem Corn --
Then Corn again seems Catholics.
Now, Dantzic wheat before you floats --
Now, Jesuits from California --
Now, Ceres, link'd with Titus Oats,
Comes dancing through the "Porta Cornea."
Oft, too, the Corn grows animate,
And a whole crop of heads appears,
Like Papists, bearding Church and State --
Themselves, together by the ears!
In short, these torments never cease;
And oft I wish myself transferr'd off
To some far, lonely land of peace,
Where Corn or Papists ne'er were heard of.
Yes, waft me, Parry, to the Pole,
For -- if my fate is to be chosen
'Twixt bores and icebergs -- on my soul,
I'd rather, of the two, be frozen!
poem by Thomas Moore
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Bible Stories: Ruth (Part II)
A man of wealth great was Boaz-
A kinsman of Elimelech,
The (dead) husband of Naomi.
Ruth asked Naomi to permit
Her glean among the ears of grain
In rich Boaz’s field that day;
Naomi told her to do so.
Young Ruth began to glean the ears
After the reapers, in the field
Of rich Boaz, from morn that day;
From Bethlehem, then Boaz came
And told the reapers all that day,
‘May Lord, our God be with you all.’
And they replied, ‘May He bless you! ’
Boaz then asked his servant nigh,
‘Who is that young woman that gleans? ’
The servant said, ‘A Moabite
With Naomi, from Moab-land.’
Ruth begged Boaz, ‘Please let me glean
And gather grain after reapers! ’
Boaz told Ruth, ‘You may do so,
But venture not into next field.’
She could stay on with his maids there.
He told the servants, ‘Don’t touch her.’
If thirsty, drink from water-jars
Or from what servants shall too draw.
Ruth fell upon her face on ground
And bowed and asked, ‘Is it because
She was a foreigner, she found
Good favor in Boaz’s sight? ’
To this, Boaz replied to her,
‘I am aware of all you’ve done
For your mother-in-law after
Your husband died and how you’d left
Your parents and your place of birth
To people whom you never knew.’
‘May Lord, the God of Israel then
(Under whose wings, you take refuge)
Reward your work that looks so great
And pay wages in accordance.’
To this Ruth said, ‘I’ve found favor
In your sight, lord, indeed so well.
I thank you for your kind words said,
Although I’m not akin your maids! ’
At mealtime Boaz said to Ruth,
‘Come, dip your bread in vinegar,
And served her roasted grains with all.
Ruth ate and seemed so satisfied.
When she arose to glean once more,
Boaz commanded that she glean
Even among the sheaves this time,
And no one was to insult her.
He told them to pull out grain-ears
From sheaves and dropp them purposely,
Allowing Ruth to glean freely,
And no one was to rebuke her!
Until that evening, Ruth had gleaned;
She beat the ears to gather grain;
It was an ephah of barley!
She took the grain into the town
And showed it all to Naomi
Who appeared very satisfied.
Her mother-in-law then asked her,
‘Where did you glean today and work?
May God bless him who favored you! ’
Ruth told her his name was Boaz!
Naomi told, God is so kind
To both the living and the dead.
May God bless Boaz specially
She told, ‘He’s our close relative! ’
Ruth told all that Boaz had said;
Naomi felt so happy that
Ruth had been asked to glean again,
Until the barley harvest ends.
Ruth did as Boaz instructed
And lived with her mother-in-law!
poem by John Celes
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On Fields O'er Which the Reaper's Hand Has Pass'd
On fields o'er which the reaper's hand has pass'd
Lit by the harvest moon and autumn sun,
My thoughts like stubble floating in the wind
And of such fineness as October airs,
There after harvest could I glean my life
A richer harvest reaping without toil,
And weaving gorgeous fancies at my will
In subtler webs than finest summer haze.
poem by Henry David Thoreau
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Victory
Victory is ours!
Said one crow to the other,
As they soared in the sky above.
For below them they had spied
Golden corn, that was ripe,
From which, they would have their feast.
Tantalizing ears of gold
Laying out row upon row
Though as a river when the wind blowed.
'And no one is there'!
Exclaimed one crow in the air
'To protect that golden hair'.
So victory is ours!
Exclaimed the crows beginning there dive
Upon the corn, coming into sight.
But then shots rang out,
And two crows fell to the ground
As the corn waived in the wind.
Then walked two farmers to the crows
Who were hidden out of view
To observe the birds which flew.
Then one farmer spoke to the other
About the corn they defended together,
Exclaiming, 'victory is ours, over all others'.
poem by Randy McClave
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Ruth
Ruth
She stood breast-high amid the corn,
Clasp’d by the golden light of morn,
Like the sweetheart of the sun,
Who many a glowing kiss had won.
On her cheek an autumn flush,
Deeply ripen’d;—such a blush
In the midst of brown was born,
Like red poppies grown with corn.
Round her eyes her tresses fell,
Which were blackest none could tell,
But long lashes veil’d a light,
That had else been all too bright.
And her hat, with shady brim,
Made her tressy forehead dim;
Thus she stood amid the stooks,
Praising God with sweetest looks:—
Sure, I said, Heav’n did not mean,
Where I reap thou shouldst but glean,
Lay thy sheaf adown and come,
Share my harvest and my home.
poem by Thomas Hood
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Grow grass, not corn
If you want to help someone grow up,
Do it like growing grass in a lawn,
Not like growing corn in a farm
Growing corn expecting a harvest
Will mar the pleasure of your efforts
In case the harvest turns a failure.
The pleasant mind grown out of the helps given
Need not be painted with bitterness
By putting to the test the one you helped.
28.12.2008.
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Harvest For The World
All babies together
Evry one a seed
Half of us are satisfied
The other half of us in need
Loves bountiful in us
Tarnished by our greed
Oh, when will there be a harvest.. for the world?
(harvest for the world)
A nations planted
So concerned with gain
As the seasons come and go, we wont wait in vain
Far too many, feelin the strain
(chorus)
(a harvest.. a harvest)
(a harvest.. a harvest)
(a harvest.. a harvest)
(a harvest.. a harvest)
(a harvest for the world)
Dress me up for battle
When all I want is peace
Those of us who pay the price
Come home with the least
And nation after nation, tuning into beasts
(chorus)
When will there be.. a harvest
When will there be.. a harvest
When will there be.. a harvest
When will there be.. a harvest
When will there be.. a harvest
When will there be.. a harvest
When will there be.. a harvest..
song performed by by Duran Duran
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Parables of Jesus: The Kingdom of Heaven: The Wheat and the Darnel Gospel, Matthew 13: 24-30
Then Jesus told another parable:
‘Kingdom of Heaven- Wheat and the darnel'
Heaven can be compared to that of a man,
Who sowed only good seed in his whole field.
But just when everybody fell asleep,
His enemy had come and sown darnel,
Amongst the wheat and sped away quite fast.
And when the new wheat sprouted very well,
The darnel too appeared amidst the same;
His labourers all went to him and said,
‘Wasn't it good seed that you sowed in your field?
He told them, ‘Some enemy had done this! '
When they asked if they should pull the weeds out,
He told, ‘No, as the wheat would come with it! '
‘Let them both grow until the harvest-time;
And then I will instruct my reapers all,
‘Collect the darnel first; burn the bundles!
Gather the good wheat all into my barn! '
poem by John Celes
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The Corn Song
HEAP HIGH the farmer’s wintry hoard!
Heap high the golden corn!
No richer gift has Autumn poured
From out her lavish horn!
Let other lands, exulting, glean
The apple from the pine,
The orange from its glossy green,
The cluster from the vine;
We better love the hardy gift
Our rugged vales bestow,
To cheer us when the storm shall drift
Our harvest-fields with snow.
Through vales of grass and meads of flowers
Our ploughs 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.
There, richer than the fabled gift
Apollo showered of old,
Fair hands the broken grain shall sift,
And knead its meal of gold.
Let vapid idlers loll in silk
Around their costly board;
Give us the bowl of samp and milk,
By homespun beauty poured!
Where’er the wide old kitchen hearth
Sends up its smoky curls,
Who will not thank the kindly earth
And bless our farmer girls?
Then shame on all the proud and vain,
Whose folly laughs to scorn
The blessing of our hardy grain,
Our wealth of golden corn!
Let earth withhold her goodly root,
Let mildew blight the rye,
Give to the worm the orchard’s fruit,
The wheat-field to the fly:
But let the good old crop adorn
The hills our fathers trod;
Still let us, for His golden corn,
Send up our thanks to God!
poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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Bringing Our Sheaves with Us
The time for toil is past, and night has come,--
The last and saddest of the harvest-eves;
Worn out with labor long and wearisome,
Drooping and faint, the reapers hasten home,
Each laden with his sheaves.
Last of the laborers thy feet I gain,
Lord of the harvest! and my spirit grieves
That I am burdened not so much with grain
As with a heaviness of heart and brain;--
Master, behold my sheaves!
Few, light, and worthless,--yet their trifling weight
Through all my frame a weary aching leaves;
For long I struggled with my hapless fate,
And staid and toiled till it was dark and late,--
Yet these are all my sheaves.
Full well I know I have more tares than wheat,--
Brambles and flowers, dry stalks, and withered leaves
Wherefore I blush and weep, as at thy feet
I kneel down reverently, and repeat,
"Master, behold my sheaves!"
I know these blossoms, clustering heavily
With evening dew upon their folded leaves,
Can claim no value nor utility,--
Therefore shall fragrancy and beauty be
The glory of my sheaves.
So do I gather strength and hope anew;
For well I know thy patient love perceives
Not what I did, but what I strove to do,--
And though the full, ripe ears be sadly few,
Thou wilt accept my sheaves.
poem by Elizabeth Chase Allen from The Atlantic Monthly, vol. 2
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Sonnet: Parables of Jesus: Grain of Wheat
Unless a grain of wheat is sown in soil,
And dies, decays, transforms, gets life anew,
And sprouts into a sapling through one's toil,
It cannot grow to bear fruits that are due!
The grain of wheat remains as such, if not:
Like selfish men who will not do God's will;
Serve God usefully, they simply cannot,
Nor granary at harvest-time, they fill.
Like grain of wheat, men have God's will to do;
Like Jesus, they must carry cross till death;
Like Saviour Christ, they will resurrect too,
And fulfill purpose for which God gave birth!
But Christ died on the cross for mankind's sins,
And love of man, and Father's obeisance!
poem by John Celes
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Laughing Corn
There was a high majestic fooling
Day before yesterday in the yellow corn.
And day after to-morrow in the yellow corn
There will be high majestic fooling.
The ears ripen in late summer
And come on with a conquering laughter,
Come on with a high and conquering laughter.
The long-tailed blackbirds are hoarse.
One of the smaller blackbirds chitters on a stalk
And a spot of red is on its shoulder
And I never heard its name in my life.
Some of the ears are bursting.
A white juice works inside.
Cornsilk creeps in the end and dangles in the wind.
Always--I never knew it any other way--
The wind and the corn talk things over together.
And the rain and the corn and the sun and the corn
Talk things over together.
Over the road is the farmhouse.
The siding is white and a green blind is slung loose.
It will not be fixed till the corn is husked.
The farmer and his wife talk things over together.
poem by Carl Sandburg
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