POETRY.
THE GLEANERS.
WHEN the pale moon is leaning
From Heaven's high blue, When faintly and far Gleams the gold of a star, Then I know that God's gleaners are gleaning The dim stubbles over and through.
Little light feet are scaling The down-trodden stems, And black eyes are bright, Seeing far through the night, W here the field-mice their prizes are trailing On a pavement of dew-fashioned gems.
Every track in the stubble Makes path for the hares, Loping over the hill To feast at their will Where the bent straws lie arching and double In elfin-set innocent snares.
Come, swift little feet, to the foray !
Come, gay little guests, to the feast!
No night will betray The least word of your way, And the moon will tell no one your story Till Dawn pins her rose on the East !
WILL H. OGILVIE.
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