Explore "A Dead Harvest" by Alice Meynell on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
Along the graceless grass of town / They rake the rows of red and brown, / Dead leaves, unlike the rows of hay, / Delicate, neither gold nor grey, / Raked long ago and far away.
A narrow silence in the park; / Between the lights a narrow dark.
One street rolls on the north, and one, / Muffled, upon the south doth run.
Amid the mist the work is done.
A futile crop; for it the fire / Smoulders, and, for a stack, a pyre.
So go the town's lives on the breeze, / Even as the sheddings of the trees; / Bosom nor barn is filled with these.