Amid the Wheat by Clinton Scollard

Amid the wheat, amid the wheat,
At morn the sturdy gleaners greet
What time the meadow-lark upsprings
On buoyant wings, and soars and sings.
The reapers whet their scythes in tune
Till dies the sunlit afternoon,
Then homeward thread the laneways through
Where grasses gleam with shimmering dew,
While birds their vesper songs repeat
Amid the wheat, amid the wheat.

Amid the wheat, amid the wheat,
The poppies find a shy retreat;
With every breeze that blows is blent
Their aromatic, drowsy scent
That wafts the weary soul away
Across some wide aerial bay,
Where shoreless realms of dreamland lie
Beneath an iridescent sky:
Such vistas ope to those who meet
Amid the wheat, amid the wheat.

Amid the wheat, amid the wheat,
Who strays with frolic-loving feet?
A little maid that comes to see
Where dwells the braggart bumble-bee;
A little maid of summers few,
With laughing eyes of pansy hue,
Whose heart is like a morn in May,
Whose life an endless holiday:
Ah, may it ever seem as sweet
As now to her amid the wheat!