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HARVEST
         The burden of the maker of the home;
         The pangs of birth; the quicksand-clutch of death.
         Wife, woman, toiler, mother, guardian, nurse,
         O lowly angel of three generations!
         She has gone through it all; all dreams we know,
         All pangs we seek to tear from our torn hearts.
         All joys that thrills us, all wild hours of grief,
         All folly, wisdom, all that makes up life,
         Has she gone through-gone through unknown to Fame,
         Unhonored, unapplauded, meek and pure;
         And lo, now she emerges from the Fight
         The Smoke and Thunder and the Noise of life,
         Radiant, mellowed, and the golden days
         Are hers: the golden Autumn days are hers!
         Unvexed by brawling problems of the hour,
         Her very glance solves all: she brings to us
         A sweet solution of the life on Earth,
         Yea, tender touches of eternal God,
         Not preached in words, but raining from her Soul
         As Autumn haze in the golden Indian Summer
         Fills through the woodlands and the world is lost."
Blessed indeed is the woman who has known such a grandmother;
but thrice blessed is she who lives in the sunset glow, surrounded by
her children's children; seeing in them the immortal fulfilment of her
heart's desire, and possessing the peace that passeth understanding.
                        HARVEST
            FROM bud that is swept to the ground,
            FFrom the blossom that dies,
            The hands of my spirit have bound
                The flowers of paradise.
            From its toil in the sun and shower,
                 From touch of earth and sea,
            My soul has gathered up its power
                 Of immortality!
                                      EDWARD WILBUR MASON.
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