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, touched with gold and 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.