I. — Here.
IT is harvest-time in England,
And I see the sheaves of corn
In their lines like sentries standing
Round the farm where I was born.
And the wives and children labour
With the guidance of the grey;
For the strong young men are marching
In the fields of Death to-day!
Yet it’s harvest-time in England,
And the scythes are sharp again;
So the weak and old must swing them,
For the corn is lives of men.
II. — There.
It is harvest-time in Flanders,
And the Reaper leaves behind,
Lying strewn along the valley,
Lines of dead and halt and blind.
And he darkly moves beside them
Piling sheaves across the plain;
Or he stands awhile in silence
Gloating o’er his treasured slain.
For it’s harvest-time in Flanders,
And the scythes are sharp again;
But it’s Death the Reaper swings them,
And his sheaves are lives of men.
(Henry Allsopp)
More Poetry from Henry Allsopp:
Henry Allsopp Poems based on Topics: Man, Silence, England, Advices, Death & DyingReaders Who Like This Poem Also Like:
Based on Topics: Man Poems, Death & Dying Poems, Silence Poems, England Poems, Advices PoemsBased on Keywords: harvest-time, gloating