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ISSUE:  Spring 1933


“Oh! Raining! Look!” she whispered,
Gazing out
On wheat fields parched with drought,
And trees that even in prime
Of bounteous summertime
Showed yellow in their green;
But now, as in delight,
Showered down these withered leaves
Among the untimely sheaves
Of harvest; poor and lean.
“And I, alas!”
She sighed,
“This day to be a bride!”


Fair shone the sick man’s moon
Upon his bed,
And her cold silver shed.
Glazed eyes, in wasted face,
He marked her solemn pace,
As on, from height to height,
She to her zenith won,
And the wide fields below
Made lovely—as with snow—
Transfiguring the night.
“Thou courtesan!”
Mocked he,
“Would’st thou, then, lie with me!”


Loud sounded out the Trump:
In vestry chill,
Its every stone athrill,
The parson leaned an ear,
With pouted lips, to hear.
But now a silence wells,
As of a sea at rest,
Stilling the honeyed air—
With fruit and flowers made fair—
As mute as his own bells.
He frowned. He sighed.
“To come
“Just now!—at Harvest Home!”


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