Clinton Scollard (1860–1932)

BEHOLD a billowy sea of golden spears

That to and fro in every breeze that blows

Tosses its amber waves, and proudly shows

Bright scarlet poppies when the warm wind veers.

Hearken, and lo! there falls upon the ears

A song as mellow as the one that rose

From Boaz’ fields at daytime’s drowsy close

And thrilled his heart in those dim Hebrew years.

And the swart mower, leaning on his scythe

To catch the swelling music, clear and blithe,

Thinks, as his eyes with love-light brim and glow,

That she who sings, the while the bright beams fade,

Is far diviner than the lovely maid

Who gleaned in fields Judean long ago.