Related quotes: Bring in the harvest sheaves,...

New Seeds Will Be Sown

Bring in the harvest sheaves, and store
Them safely, on the barn's stone floor.
Let all who've worked to stack and bind,
On the farmhouse table, their cider, find.
They will heartily cheer the farmer's thanks,
Then get up to some quite jovial pranks,
While celebrating a long and hard day's reap,
Before falling soundly off to sleep.

The winter's grain is home and bound,
Taken with skill from the fertile ground.
And in time some new seeds will be sown,
As soon as the frost, snow and ice have flown.
The fields are left, just with rough stubble now,
Ready for furrows to be cut by the plough.
Next year these crops will grow once again,
Helped by the Lord, his sunbeams and rain.

poem by Ernestine Northover
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Related quotes

Farmers Complaint

The frosted fields are lying fallow.
The frozen ground will not allow
free passage to the farmers plough

Though things will change they always do
Then is the time he must review
the wisest course he can pursue.

He needs to plough then he must sow
the kind of crops he wants to grow
he can’t afford to be too slow.

When spring sunshine ignites the fuse.
A farmer has no time to lose.
Excuses are of little use.

Spring is the time of life’s rebirth.
He must prepare the fertile earth
and labour hard to prove his worth
.

The seasons cycle in their turn
as every farmer has to learn
If you don’t work you cannot earn.

A farmer only prospers when
he works harder than other men
or so they say time and again.

I do not know it may be true
That farmers have too much to do.
I don’t believe it though. Do you?

11-Jan-09

http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers

poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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As God Gave Freely

As God gave freely unto me
gifts of compassion love patience time
so I also give freely unto you

in the fertile landscapes of harvest mind
have I not prepared fields broken ground
have I not sown in full measure love seed

will you now take ownership of these fields?
will you water fertilize tender growth shoots?
will you weed harvest all life love gift fields?

for 18 months more have I alone toiled prepared?
are not these fields without cost to you purchased?
did I not give sacred work all my time livelihood?

will you choose to help harvest these compassion seeds?
will you let peace love flower with purity in your minds?
will you turn swords into plough shears till peace fields?

poem by Terence George Craddock
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Nature Succeeds Where Man Fails

What seeds, I threw
across the window, grew
as custard apple saplings, fast,
surprising all who came and looked aghast
and wondered how miraculous things could happen thus!

The seeds within the bird-droppings
Find domes and steeples, gopurams,
To grow so well that people often ask,
‘Can plants grow without soil and only rain,
Deriving nutrition from merely air? ’

Yet, farmers till the ground until
Forehead sweat falls and rain and sun
Can’t germinate the seeds sown well,
As tears fill eyes as crops don’t grow:
‘O God, they cry, why are we so unblessed? ’

At times, man may not reap what he may sow,
Until God-blessed, allowed by God;
He knows what, when, how much to give
Each person, as he well deserves:
God’s words decide our labour’s fruit.

poem by John Celes
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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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Sing Joyously.

Awdl Gywydd.

Autumn the harvest season
It's the time for gathering
in the crops to safely store
All we need and more: So sing

Praises to the creator
The crops we store are his gift.
A reward for the hard work.
We did not shirk nor ignore.

Sunday,02 September 2012

poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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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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Harvest

See! the corn again in ear!
How the fields and valleys smile!
Harvest now is drawing near
To repay the farmer's toil:
Gracious Lord, secure the crop,
Satisfy the poor with food;
In thy mercy is our hope,
We have sinned but thou art good.

While I view the plenteous grain
As it ripens on the stalk;
May I not instruction gain,
Helpful, to my daily walk?
All this plenty of the field
Was produced from foreign seeds;
For the earth itself would yield
Only crops of useless weeds.

Though, when newly sawn, it lay
Hid awhile beneath the ground,
Some might think it thrown away
Now a large increase is found:
Though concealed, it was not lost,
Though it died, it lives again;
Eastern storms, and nipping frosts
Have opposed its growth in vain.

Let the praise be all the Lord's,
As the benefit is ours!
He, in seasons, still affords
Kindly heat, and gentle flow'rs:
By his care the produce thrives
Waving o'er the furrowed lands;
And when harvest-time arrives,
Ready for the reaper stands.

Thus in barren hearts he sows
Precious seeds of heav'nly joy;
Sin, and hell, in vain oppose,
None can grace's crop destroy:
Threatened oft, yet still it blooms,
After many changes past,
Death, the reaper, when he comes,
Finds it fully ripe at last.

poem by John Newton
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The Hock-cart, Or Harvest Home:to The Right Honourable Mildmay, Earl Of Westmorland

Come, Sons of Summer, by whose toil
We are the lords of wine and oil:
By whose tough labours, and rough hands,
We rip up first, then reap our lands.
Crown'd with the ears of corn, now come,
And, to the pipe, sing Harvest Home.

Come forth, my lord, and see the cart
Drest up with all the country art.
See, here a maukin, there a sheet,
As spotless pure, as it is sweet:
The horses, mares, and frisking fillies,
Clad, all, in linen white as lilies.
The harvest swains and wenches bound
For joy, to see the Hock-Cart crown'd.
About the cart, hear, how the rout
Of rural younglings raise the shout;
Pressing before, some coming after,
Those with a shout, and these with laughter.
Some bless the cart; some kiss the sheaves;
Some prank them up with oaken leaves:
Some cross the fill-horse; some with great
Devotion, stroke the home-borne wheat:
While other rustics, less attent
To prayers, than to merriment,
Run after with their breeches rent.
--Well, on, brave boys, to your lord's hearth,
Glitt'ring with fire; where, for your mirth,
Ye shall see first the large and chief
Foundation of your feast, fat beef;
With upper stories, mutton, veal
And bacon, which makes full the meal,
With sev'ral dishes standing by,
As here a custard, there a pie,
And here, all tempting frumenty.
And for to make the merry cheer,
If smirking wine be wanting here,
There's that which drowns all care, stout beer:
Which freely drink to your lord's health
Then to the plough, the common-wealth;
Next to your flails, your fanes, your vats;
Then to the maids with wheaten hats:
To the rough sickle, and crookt scythe,--
Drink, frolic, boys, till all be blythe.
Feed, and grow fat; and as ye eat,
Be mindful, that the lab'ring neat,
As you, may have their fill of meat.
And know, besides, ye must revoke
The patient ox unto the yoke,
And all go back unto the plough
And harrow, though they're hang'd up now.
And, you must know, your lord's word's true,
Feed him ye must, whose food fills you;
And that this pleasure is like rain,
Not sent ye for to drown your pain,
But for to make it spring again.

poem by Robert Herrick
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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First Snowfall

Oh the first snowfall of the winter
Was a day that we all waited for
When it drifted to and frost
Why you shouldve seen the snow
It was near seven feet or more
By the old barn door
Oh the first snowfall of the winter
What a joy for a boy to behold
In each house youll find a sleigh
That was waiting for this day
And of course, down the road a hill
For each jack and jill
Every winter breeze that scurries
Sets the snowflakes up in flurries
Its the good old sentimental season when
Folks put runners on their surreys
And forget about their worries
When a man becomes a boy once again
Oh the first snowfall of the winter
Jingle bells bring us spells ever dear
Under wintry skies of gray
It was snowing all the day
And it showed no signs of stopping
Every kid with eyes of popping
Will soon be belly-whopping on his ear
On the first snowfall of the winter
Oh the first snowfall of the year
The first snow of the year
Is just about the best snow
Well Ill say any snow
Is a pretty good show

song performed by by Carpenters
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Hock-cart, or Harvest Home

To the Right Honourable Mildmay, Earl of Westmoreland

Come, sons of summer, by whose toil
We are the lords of wine and oil;
By whose tough labours, and rough hands,
We rip up first, then reap our lands.
Crown'd with the ears of corn, now come,
And to the pipe sing Harvest Home.
Come forth, my lord, and see the cart
Dress'd up with all the country art.
See, here a malkin, there a sheet,
As spotless pure, as it is sweet;
The horses, mares, and frisking fillies,
(Clad, all, in linen, white as lilies.)
The harvest swains and wenches bound
For joy, to see the Hock-cart crown'd.
About the cart, hear, how the rout
Of rural younglings raise the shout;
Pressing before, some coming after,
Those with a shout, and these with laughter.
Some bless the cart; some kisses the sheaves;
Some prank them up with oaken leaves;
Some cross the fill-horse; some with great
Devotion, stroke the home-borne wheat;
While other rustics, less attent
To prayers than to merriment,
Run after with their breeches rent.
Well, on, brave boys, to your lord's hearth,
Glitt'ring with fire, where, for your mirth,
Ye shall see first the large and chief
Foundation of your feast, fat beef,
With upper stories, mutton, veal,
And bacon, (which makes full the meal)
With sev'ral dishes standing by,
As here a custard, there a pie,
And here all tempting frumenty.
And for to make the merry cheer,
If smirking wine be wanting here,
There's that which drowns all care, stout beer,
Which freely drink to your lord's health,
Then to the plough, (the common-wealth)
Next to your flails, your fanes, your fats;
Then to the maids with wheaten hats;
To the rough sickle and crook'd scythe,
Drink frolic boys, till all be blythe.
Feed and grow fat; and as ye eat,
Be mindful, that the lab'ring neat
(As you) may have their fill of meat
And know, besides, ye must revoke
The patient ox unto the yoke,
And all go back unto the plough
And harrow, (though they're hang'd up now.)
And, you must know, your lord's word's true,
Feed him ye must, whose food fills you.
And that this pleasure is like rain,
Not sent ye for to drown your pain,
But for to make it spring again.

poem by Robert Herrick
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Hard Living

Hard living
In the country
Planting the corn
In the fields
Living a dream
Where we see our corn grow
Hard living
Planting that corn in the fields
In this warm summer day
Hard living
We have while living in the country
Our dream
Is to see our corn grow
This earth is strong
The rain we need
To water our fields
We pray for the rain
We worship the rain
We praise God for the rain
The rain helps our crops to grow
Our dream is to have a good crop this year
We are proud of our country
We are the country man
We work hard with our hands in the fields
This is what we call hard living

poem by Aldo Kraas
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The Killing Frost

There is an enchantment in the Killing Frost
It's the most magical night of the year
When the abundant blooms of Summer
Are put to sleep by Frost's frozen tears.

The Killing Frost arrives here silently
Flying in ahead of Winter's incoming wrath
Covering all things that are of the earth
Putting to sleep all flora in her path.

As the late Autumn sun sinks below the horizon
On this Special Night of the year
Plants which were all alive this past morn will be no more
It's time to make way for Winter's Cheer.

Everything Frost kisses will be put to eternal repose
Adorned by Frost's magical breath during the night
All will be dripping in Diamonds in the Morn
With which to dazzle by soft Morning's light.

Winter will be arriving shortly now
And Frost will take her leave
To make way for fluttering snowflakes
Which will come to dance during the long Winter's Eve.

poem by Christine A Kysely (29 December 2010)
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Seed-Time And Harvest

As o'er his furrowed fields which lie
Beneath a coldly dropping sky,
Yet chill with winter's melted snow,
The husbandman goes forth to sow,
Thus, Freedom, on the bitter blast
The ventures of thy seed we cast,
And trust to warmer sun and rain
To swell the germs and fill the grain.
Who calls thy glorious service hard?
Who deems it not its own reward?
Who, for its trials, counts it less
A cause of praise and thankfulness?
It may not be our lot to wield
The sickle in the ripened field;
Nor ours to hear, on summer eves,
The reaper's song among the sheaves.
Yet where our duty's task is wrought
In unison with God's great thought,
The near and future blend in one,
And whatsoe'er is willed, is done!
And ours the grateful service whence
Comes day by day the recompense;
The hope, the trust, the purpose stayed,
The fountain and the noonday shade.
And were this life the utmost span,
The only end and aim of man,
Better the toil of fields like these
Than waking dream and slothful ease.
But life, though falling like our grain,
Like that revives and springs again;
And, early called, how blest are they
Who wait in heaven their harvest-day!

poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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Winter's Winsome Weather

Crisp Winter, final season of the year,
Comes suddenly when awesome Autumn's past
The frost makes Winter mornings bright and clear,
But fosters Winter's biting icey blasts.
But Winter's winsomeness is also there,
The snow which hides the scars of furrowed ground,
The frost that sparkles on the hedgerows bare,
The snow that muffles harsh intrusive sound.
Ah! Winter, time of joy and peace and cheer,
Of carols chant and chimes of Christmas Bells,
The promise of 'The love that casts out fear',
The pleasure of sweet spicey Yuletide smells.
Remind us after Winter comes the Spring
When all things bright and beautiful will sing!

(John Knight - September 2009) .

Is Winter your favourite Season? If it is please post a comment saying why. In the UK we have many many parties and presents and holidays celebrating Christmas and New Year, This is to compensate for many cold and drizzly days. Despite Global Warming we stll get some snow in the North and especially Scotland where we have popular Ski Resorts. Winter in the Northern USA and Canada and Scandinavia and Russia is awesome and a great opportunity for Winter Sports and Apre-ski! People whose Birthday is on Christmas Day (DECEMBER 25) are doubly blessed because they are allowed a separate celebration on JUNE 25 in the following year. I have used capital letters for the Seasons in this poem because I think they are worth it. It is no longer de rigeur in the UK. John Knight.

poem by John Knight
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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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Seed-Time and Harvest

“Thou waterest her furrows, thou sendest rain into the little valleys
thereof; thou makest it soft with the drops of rain, and blessest the increase
of it.”

Fret not thyself so sorely, heart of mine,
For that the pain hath roughly broke thy rest,—
That thy wild flowers lie dead upon thy breast,
Whereon the cloud-veiled sun hath ceased to shine.

Fret not that thou art seam'd and scarr'd and torn;
That clods are piled where tinted vetches were;
That long worms crawl to light, and brown rifts, bare
Of green and tender grasses, widely yawn.

God's hand is on the plough—so be thou still.
Thou canst not see Him, for thine eyes are dim;
But wait in patience, put thy trust in Him;
Give thanks for love, and leave thee to His will.

Ah! in due time the lowering clouds shall rain
Soft drops on my parch'd furrows; I shall sow
In tears and prayers, and green corn-blades will grow;
I shall not wish the wild flowers back again.

I shall be glad that I did work and weep—
Be glad, O God! my slumbering soul did wake—
Be glad my stubborn heart did heave and break
Beneath the plough—when angels come to reap.

Be glad, O Father! that my land was till'd
And sown and water'd, in the harvest-day
When Thou wilt cast the weeds and tares away,
And when with ripen'd fruit Thy barns are fill'd.

Keep me my faith, I pray. I cannot see,
And fear to intermeddle with Thy work.
Oh, though I wince and fret, I would not shirk
The discipline that is so good for me!

I know that Thou wilt make my grief to cease,
Wilt send the cool, soft drops of healing rain,
And make my scarred heart green with springing grain,
That after patient waiting cometh peace;

That after beautiful labour I shall rest,
And after weeping have my fill of joy.
Thou breakest down to build up, not destroy;
Thou doest right, O Lord! Thou knowest best.

poem by Ada Cambridge
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Seeds

in the fertile fields of our beings
tiny seeds are sown
and they always grow
and become flowers

they also exude scent
and display bright colors
to the sun

and they wilt before
we know it
simply because we are too busy
we could have given
these seeds enough time
to see how they become
themselves

so beautifully that we could
have adored them
even in a single moment
a very brief moment

yet we didn't and now we are sad
in this regret
this reminiscing

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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This means that they are bound by law and custom to plough the fields of their masters, harvest the corn, gather it into barns, and thresh and winnow the grain; they must also mow and carry home the hay, cut and collect wood, and perform all manner of tasks of this kind.

quote by Jean Froissart
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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the Falling Petal

It starts to grow in the morning dew
The beauty it shines through and through
Until one-day it is fully grown
Being grateful its seeds were sown
The flower has blossomed and it stands tall
But sadly it knows it soon will fall
For right now, it is so proud
And in the shade, it does not shrowd
For something that was once a beautiful flower
It now just withers and in a corner it cowers
It used to bloom in the light of day
Hoping its beauty will always stay
But now winter is here and the beauty's no-more
And the future of this flower has nothing in store
When the winter snow begins to settle
Thats when you see the first falling petal

poem by Shirts Williams
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Falling Petal

poem by Jane Allan
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