Messidor
Put in the sickles and reap;
For the morning of harvest is red,
And the long large ranks of the corn
Coloured and clothed as the morn
Stand thick in the fields and deep
For them that faint to be fed.
Let all that hunger and weep
Come hither, and who would have bread
Put in the sickles and reap.
Coloured and clothed as the morn,
The grain grows ruddier than gold,
And the good strong sun is alight
In the mists of the day-dawn white,
And the crescent, a faint sharp horn,
In the fear of his face turns cold
As the snakes of the night-time that creep
From the flag of our faith unrolled.
Put in the sickles and reap.
In the mists of the day-dawn white
That roll round the morning star,
The large flame lightens and grows
Till the red-gold harvest-rows,
Full-grown, are full of the light
As the spirits of strong men are,
Crying, Who shall slumber or sleep?
Who put back morning or mar?
Put in the sickles and reap.
Till the red-gold harvest-rows
For miles through shudder and shine
In the wind's breath, fed with the sun,
A thousand spear-heads as one
Bowed as for battle to close
Line in rank against line
With place and station to keep
Till all men's hands at a sign
Put in the sickles and reap.
A thousand spear-heads as one
Wave as with swing of the sea
When the mid tide sways at its height;
For the hour is for harvest or fight
In face of the just calm sun,
As the signal in season may be
And the lot in the helm may leap
When chance shall shake it; but ye,
Put in the sickles and reap.
For the hour is for harvest or fight
To clothe with raiment of red;
O men sore stricken of hours,
Lo, this one, is not it ours
To glean, to gather, to smite?
Let none make risk of his head
Within reach of the clean scythe-sweep,
When the people that lay as the dead
Put in the sickles and reap.
Lo, this one, is not it ours,
Now the ruins of dead things rattle
As dead men's bones in the pit,
Now the kings wax lean as they sit
Girt round with memories of powers,
With musters counted as cattle
And armies folded as sheep
Till the red blind husbandman battle
Put in the sickles and reap?
Now the kings wax lean as they sit,
The people grow strong to stand;
The men they trod on and spat,
The dumb dread people that sat
As corpses cast in a pit,
Rise up with God at their hand,
And thrones are hurled on a heap,
And strong men, sons of the land,
Put in the sickles and reap.
The dumb dread people that sat
All night without screen for the night,
All day without food for the day,
They shall give not their harvest away,
They shall eat of its fruit and wax fat:
They shall see the desire of their sight,
Though the ways of the seasons be steep,
They shall climb with face to the light,
Put in the sickles and reap.
poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
The Harvest Of The Sea
The earth grows white with harvest; all day long
The sickles gleam, until the darkness weaves
Her web of silence o'er the thankful song
Of reapers bringing home the golden sheaves.
The wave tops whiten on the sea fields drear,
And men go forth at haggard dawn to reap;
But ever 'mid the gleaners' song we hear
The half-hushed sobbing of the hearts that weep.
poem by John McCrae
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Prepare the sickles in May, use the sickles in June, and in July carry the sickles to the tool shed.
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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Acres Of Skin
Walk through the ashes of man
Skin like fields on fire
Pain is only a weakness
Death is just an escape
We are connected like tissue
Feed on the shame you've raised
Why continue the harvest?
We are already dead
No one can reap these scars we've sown
There is no morning sun
No falling rain
For acres of skin
Wait! Can you hear the machines?
Gears that cultivate flesh
Why continue the harvest?
We are already dead
No one can reap these scars we've sown
There is no morning sun
No falling rain
For acres of skin
All I want and wish for
Is to end this suffering
All alone and unaware
All primed up for dying
Without face
song performed by by Fear Factory from Digimortal
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The law of harvest is to reap more than you sow. Sow an act, and you reap a habit. Sow a habit and you reap a character. Sow a character and you reap a destiny.
quote by James Allen
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Song of Harold Harfager
The sun is rising dimly red,
The wind is wailing low and dread;
From his cliff the eagle sallies,
Leaves the wolf his darksome valleys;
In the mist the ravens hover,
Peep the wild dogs from the cover,
Screaming, croaking, baying, yelling,
Each in his wild accents telling,
'Soon we feast on dead and dying,
Fair-haired Harald's flag is flying.'
Many a crest in air is streaming,
Many a helmet darkly gleaming,
Many an arm the axe uprears,
Doomed to hew the wood of spears.
All around the crowded ranks,
Horses neigh and armor clanks;
Chiefs are shouting, clarions ringing,
Louder still the bard is singing,
'Gather, footmen; gather, horsemen,
To the field, ye valiant Norsemen!
'Halt ye not not for food or slumber,
View not vantage, count not number;
Jolly reapers forward still,
Grow the crop on vale or hill,
Thick or scattered, stiff or lithe,
It shall down before the scythe.
Forward with your sickles bright,
Reap the harvest of the fight.
Onward footmen, onward horsemen,
To the charge, ye gallant Norsemen!
'Fatal Choosers of the Slaughter,
O'er you hovers Odin's daughter;
Hear the choice she spreads before ye,-
Victory, and wealth, and glory;
Or old Valhalla's roaring hail,
Her ever-circling mead and ale,
Where for eternity unite
The joys of wassail and of fight.
Headlong forward, foot and horsemen,
Charge and fight, and die like Norsemen!'-
poem by Sir Walter Scott
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As you know
As you sow
So you reap
If you sow the wind
Be ready to reap
The whirlwind.
As you sow
So you reap
If you forgive
You get eternal peace
And salvation.
poem by Gajanan Mishra
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Harvest Moon
the yellow moon,
the colour that i could never get right
in my art class
well who can
it is never really yellow
and when you add white
it loses its luminosity
full moon
well when it is full
it is never round
if you look casually at it
it bulges at one side
with a tiny star twinkling at its side
a little child crying to be carried
but who cares except the round moon
poetic moon as poets would write
whether it is or not
the little child that would soften their poem
never given its recognition
lazy bones are always copycats
and they get the world messed up
with their inaccuracies, self conceitness
the moon,
the next door amateur witch
gives it a dose of evil
chanting archaic verses for a love charm, bag of luck
and a spirit in the wild
the moon that boosts my spirit
with its innocent roundness, a softness of a girl's buttock
maternal's light, and the ways it slims, fattens, slims, wanes
signs itself in and out of the sky
inspired by
The Harvest Moon
The flame-red moon, the harvest moon,
Rolls along the hills, gently bouncing,
A vast balloon,
Till it takes off, and sinks upward
To lie on the bottom of the sky, like a gold doubloon.
The harvest moon has come,
Booming softly through heaven, like a bassoon.
And the earth replies all night, like a deep drum.
So people can't sleep,
So they go out where elms and oak trees keep
A kneeling vigil, in a religious hush.
The harvest moon has come!
And all the moonlit cows and all the sheep
Stare up at her petrified, while she swells
Filling heaven, as if red hot, and sailing
Closer and closer like the end of the world.
Till the gold fields of stiff wheat
Cry `We are ripe, reap us! ' and the rivers
Sweat from the melting hills.
Ted Hughes
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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May Janet
“STAND UP, stand up, thou May Janet,
And go to the wars with me.”
He’s drawn her by both hands
With her face against the sea.
“He that strews red shall gather white,
He that sows white reap red,
Before your face and my daughter’s
Meet in a marriage-bed.
“Gold coin shall grow in the yellow field,
Green corn in the green sea-water,
And red fruit grow of the rose’s red,
Ere your fruit grow in her.”
“But I shall have her by land,” he said,
“Or I shall have her by sea,
Or I shall have her by strong treason
And no grace go with me.”
Her father’s drawn her by both hands,
He’s rent her gown from her,
He’s ta’en the smock round her body,
Cast in the sea-water.
The captain’s drawn her by both sides
Out of the fair green sea;
“Stand up, stand up, thou May Janet,
And come to the war with me.”
The first town they came to
There was a blue bride-chamber;
He clothed her on with silk
And belted her with amber.
The second town they came to
The bridesmen feasted knee to knee;
He clothed her on with silver,
A stately thing to see.
The third town they came to
The bridesmaids all had gowns of gold;
He clothed her on with purple,
A rich thing to behold.
The last town they came to
He clothed her white and red,
With a green flag either side of her
And a gold flag overhead.
poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Be Not Weary
Sometimes, when I am toil-worn and aweary,
And tired out with working long and well,
And earth is dark, and skies above are dreary,
And heart and soul are all too sick to tell,
These words have come to me like angel fingers
Pressing the spirit's eyelids down in sleep,
'Oh let us not be weary in well doing,
For in due season we shall surely reap.'
Oh, blessed promise! When I seem to hear it,
Whispered by angel voices on the air,
It breathes new life and courage to my spirit,
And gives me strength to suffer and forbear.
And I can wait most patiently for harvest,
And cast my seeds, nor ever faint, nor weep,
If I know surely that my work availeth,
And in God's season, I at last shall reap.
When mind and body were borne down completely,
And I have thought my efforts were all in vain,
These words have come to me so softly, sweetly,
And whispered hope, and urged me on again.
And though my labour seems all unavailing,
And all my striving fruitless, yet the Lord
Doth treasure up each little seed I scatter,
And sometime, sometime, I shall reap the reward.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Harvest
Sun on the mountain,
Shade in the valley,
Ripple and lightness
Leaping along the world,
Sun, like a gold sword
Plucked from the scabbard,
Striking the wheat-fields,
Splendid and lusty,
Close-standing, full-headed,
Toppling with plenty;
Shade, like a buckler
Kindly and ample,
Sweeping the wheat-fields
Darkening and tossing;
There on the world-rim
Winds break and gather
Heaping the mist
For the pyre of the sunset;
And still as a shadow,
In the dim westward,
A cloud sloop of amethyst
Moored to the world
With cables of rain.
Acres of gold wheat
Stir in the sunshine,
Rounding the hill-top,
Crested with plenty,
Filling the valley,
Brimmed with abundance,
Wind in the wheat-field
Eddying and settling,
Swaying it, sweeping it,
Lifting the rich heads,
Tossing them soothingly
Twinkle and shimmer
The lights and the shadowings,
Nimble as moonlight
Astir in the mere.
Laden with odors
Of peace and of plenty,
Soft comes the wind
From the ranks of the wheat-field,
Bearing a promise
Of harvest and sickle-time,
Opulent threshing-floors
Dusty and dim
With the whirl of the flail,
And wagons of bread,
Sown-laden and lumbering
Through the gateways of cities.
When will the reapers
Strike in their sickles,
Bending and grasping,
Shearing and spreading;
When will the gleaners
Searching the stubble
Take the last wheat-heads
Home in their arms ?
Ask not the question! -
Something tremendous
Moves to the answer.
Hunger and poverty
Heaped like the ocean
Welters and mutters,
Hold back the sickles!
Millions of children
Born to their mothers' womb,
Starved at the nipple, cry,--
Ours is the harvest!
Millions of women
Learned in the tragical
Secrets of poverty,
Sweated and beaten, cry,--
Hold back the sickles!
Millions of men
With a vestige of manhood,
Wild-eyed and gaunt-throated,
Shout with a leonine
Accent of anger,
Leaves us the wheat-fields!
When will the reapers
Strike in their sickles?
Ask not the question;
Something tremendous
Moves to the answer.
Long have they sharpened
Their fiery, impetuous
Sickles of carnage,
Welded them aeons
Ago in the mountains
Of suffering and anguish;
Hearts were their hammers
Blood was their fire,
Sorrow their anvil,
(Trusty the sickle
Tempered with tears;)
Time they had plenty-
Harvests and harvests
Passed them in agony,
Only a half-filled
Ear for their lot;
Man that has taken
God for a master
Made him a law,
Mocked him and cursed him,
Set up this hunger,
Called it necessity,
Put in the blameless mouth
Juda's language:
The poor ye have with you
Always, unending.
But up from the impotent
Anguish of children,
Up from the labor
Fruitless, unmeaning,
Of millions of mothers,
Hugely necessitous,
Grew by a just law
Stern and implacable,
Art born of poverty,
The making of sickles
Meet for the harvest.
And now to the wheat-fields
Come the weird reapers
Armed with their sickles,
Whipping them keenly
In the fresh-air fields,
Wild with the joy of them,
Finding them trusty,
Hilted with teen.
Swarming like ants,
The Idea for captain,
No banners, no bugles,
Only a terrible
Ground-bass of gathering
Tempest and fury,
Only a tossing
Of arms and of garments;
Sexless and featureless,
(Only the children
Different among them,
Crawling between their feet,
Borne on their shoulders;)
Rolling their shaggy heads
Wild with the unheard-of
Drug of the sunshine;
Tears that had eaten
The half of their eyelids
Dry on their cheeks;
Blood in their stiffened hair
Clouted and darkened;
Down in their cavern hearts
Hunger the tiger,
Leaping, exulting;
Sighs that had choked them
Burst into triumphing;
On they come, Victory!
Up to the wheat-fields,
Dreamed of in visions
Bred by the hunger,
Seen for the first time
Splendid and golden;
On they come fluctuant,
Seething and breaking,
Weltering like fire
In the pit of the earthquake,
Bursting in heaps
With the sudden intractable
Lust of the hunger:
Then when they see them-
The miles of the harvest
White in the sunshine,
Rushing and stumbling,
With the mighty and clamorous
Cry of a people
Starved from creation,
Hurl themselves onward,
Deep in the wheat-fields,
Weeping like children,
After ages and ages,
Back at the mother the earth.
Night in the valley,
Gloom on the mountain,
Wind in the wheat,
Far to the southward
The flutter of lightning,
The shudder of thunder;
But high at the zenith,
A cluster of stars
Glimmers and throbs
In the gasp of the midnight,
Steady and absolute,
Ancient and sure
poem by Duncan Campbell Scott
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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We The Cats (Shall Hep Ya)
(words and music by Cab Calloway and Jack Palmer)
And the time is right
And tonight's the night
Alreed-alright
Come on, old man, come on
We the cats shall hep ya
So reap this righteous riff
Here's the beat to hep ya
So reap this righteous riff
Well, you gotta come on like GI's
You dig the repeat with me and sigh
Put it right on the lee high
Then you can really get by, oh my
We the cats shall hep ya
So reap this righteous riff
Now you're hep I'll betcha
So reap this righteous riff
Well, we the cats shall hep ya
So reap this righteous riff
Here's the beat to hep ya
So reap this righteous riff
Well, you gotta come on like GI's
You dig the repeat with me and sigh
Put it right on the lee high
Then you can really get by, oh my
We the cats shall hep ya
So reap this righteous riff
Now you're hep I'll betcha
So reap this righteous riff
(instrumnetal break)
Well, we the cats shall hep ya
So reap this righteous riff
Here's the beat to hep ya
So reap this righteous riff
Well, you gotta come on like GI's
You dig the repeat with me and sigh
Put it right on the lee high
Then you can really get by, oh my
We the cats shall hep ya
So reap this righteous riff
Now you're hep I'll betcha
Skibble-de-dooba
Skibble-de-boy-boy
Skibble-de-reeba
This righteous, this righteous riff
song performed by by Joe Jackson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Reign Of Blows
Reign of blows
Reign of blows
Reign of blows cascading down upon your shoulders
Far too many men dressed up as soldiers
The lamb is brought to the ground
Under the weight of the crown
A crown of thorns and dark deeds
The swastika and the hammer and symbol
Are sickles that reap only weeds
Reign of blows
Reign of blows
Reign of blows precedes a storm of revolution
People have no place in their solution
So torture raises its head
Decked out in blue, white, and red
And iron maidens will slam
And by the half light of burning republics
Joe stalin looks just like uncle sam
Reign of blows
Reign of blows
Reign of blows has washed away the corpse of abel,
Cain is now the king in every babel
I just dont care who you are
When death draws up in his car
And talks in terrorist tones
Remember violence is only a vote for the
Black queen to take back the throne
Reign of blows
song performed by by Xtc
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Reign Of Blows
Reign of blows
Reign of blows
Reign of blows cascading down upon your shoulders
Far too many men dressed up as soldiers
The lamb is brought to the ground
Under the weight of the crown
A crown of thorns and dark deeds
The swastika and the hammer and symbol
Are sickles that reap only weeds
Reign of blows
Reign of blows
Reign of blows precedes a storm of revolution
People have no place in their solution
So torture raises its head
Decked out in blue, white, and red
And iron maidens will slam
And by the half light of burning republics
Joe stalin looks just like uncle sam
Reign of blows
Reign of blows
Reign of blows has washed away the corpse of abel,
Cain is now the king in every babel
I just dont care who you are
When death draws up in his car
And talks in terrorist tones
Remember violence is only a vote for the
Black queen to take back the throne
Reign of blows
song performed by by Xtc
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Come, Here Is Adieu To The City
COME, here is adieu to the city
And hurrah for the country again.
The broad road lies before me
Watered with last night's rain.
The timbered country woos me
With many a high and bough;
And again in the shining fallows
The ploughman follows the plough.
The whole year's sweat and study,
And the whole year's sowing time,
Comes now to the perfect harvest,
And ripens now into rhyme.
For we that sow in the Autumn,
We reap our grain in the Spring,
And we that go sowing and weeping
Return to reap and sing.
poem by Robert Louis Stevenson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Perfect Day
Just a perfect day..
Drink sangria in the park
And later, when it gets dark
We go home
Just a perfect day..
Feed animals in the zoo
And later, a movie too
And then home
Its such a perfect day
Im glad I spent it with you
Such a perfect day
You just keep me hanging on..
You just keep me hanging on..
Just a perfect day..
Problems all left alone
Weekenders on our own
Such fun
Just a perfect day
You made me forget myself
I thought I was someone else
Someone new
(chorus)
-
Youre gonna reap, just what you sow.
Youre gonna reap, just what you sow.
Youre gonna reap, just what you sow.
Youre gonna reap, just what you sow.
Youre gonna reap, just what you sow.
Youre gonna reap, just what you sow.
song performed by by Duran Duran
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Patience Chest of Riches
Might the earth mount to reap
Of the heaven mother's water's it's lip
Hasty as fire, all to drip
silent sea, must it doth grip
If pond's earth, nay must reap from the hip
And treasures be it's heir to reap
poem by Muhammad Abdullah B. Kutigi
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Let us, therefore, not be weary of well-doing; for we shall reap an eternal harvest of comfort, if we faint not.
quote by George Whitefield
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Evening Hymn In The Hovels
'WE sow the fertile seed and then we reap it;
We thresh the golden grain; we knead the bread.
Others that eat are glad. In store they keep it,
While we hunger outside with hearts like lead.
Hallelujah!
'We hew the stone and saw it, rear the city.
Others inhabit there in pleasant ease.
We have no thing to ask of them save pity,
No answer they to give but what they please.
Hallelujah!
'Is it for ever, fathers, say, and mothers,
That we must toil and never know the light?
Is it for ever, sisters, say, and brothers,
That they must grind us dead here in the night?
Hallelujah!
'O we who sow, reap, knead, shall we not also
Have strength and pleasure of the food we make?
O we who hew, build, deck, shall we not also
The happiness that we have given partake?
Hallelujah!'
poem by Francis William Lauderdale Adams
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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We The Cats
And the time is right
And tonight's the night
Alreed-alright
Come on, old man, come on
We the cats shall hep ya
So reap this righteous riff
Here's the beat to hep ya
So reap this righteous riff
Well, you gotta come on like gi's
You dig the repeat with me and sigh
Put it right on the lee high
Then you can really get by, oh my
We the cats shall hep ya
So reap this righteous riff
Now you're hep i'll betcha
So reap this righteous riff
Well, we the cats shall hep ya
So reap this righteous riff
Here's the beat to hep ya
So reap this righteous riff
Well, you gotta come on like gi's
You dig the repeat with me and sigh
Put it right on the lee high
Then you can really get by, oh my
We the cats shall hep ya
So reap this righteous riff
Now you're hep i'll betcha
So reap this righteous riff
Well, we the cats shall hep ya
So reap this righteous riff
Here's the beat to hep ya
So reap this righteous riff
Well, you gotta come on like gi's
You dig the repeat with me and sigh
Put it right on the lee high
Then you can really get by, oh my
We the cats shall hep ya
So reap this righteous riff
Now you're hep i'll betcha
Skibble-de-dooba
Skibble-de-boy-boy
Skibble-de-reeba
This righteous, this righteous riff
song performed by by Joe Jackson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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