The Quiet Harvest

WITHIN a thicket ere the sun
Was up, I heard a whisper run.
Each bush and tree was bidding, now,
Its yellow leaves forsake the bough.
And each leaf, having had its day,
Stepped down to earth the shortest way.

In April budding on the tree;
In hot July full-blown and free;
October bids them no more be.
I had, I think, as fair a spring;
July let equal fortune bring;
God give as quiet harvesting.

poem by Philip Henry Savage
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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