The Human Harvest

The pine-trees whisper in the wind, And thee, the evening skies, Are lovelier than a dream, because They frame thy mystic eyes.

The twilight glimmers on the hills, And thine own eyes are there, Where wee birds sing as violets sing, And earth is richer—fair.

Oh, tinged with dreams of air and space, Thy golden hair blows free; I gather thee with the flowers bloom, And breathe the air with thee.

For all the world is flowered just, With thee upon the way, And love is but a weaver’s hand To fan the world’s array.

And neath the shadow of the trees In fragrant twilight gloom, I wait for thee to sigh and shine, Amid the flowers bloom.

In every land, from vale to hill, I only yearn for thee; The heart must yield its harvest here— The Nightingale—The Sea!

• William Wilfred Campbell