Harvest (October Child)

I shall not grieve to see the swallows fly;

When woodbine reddens on the gray stone wall,

With every darkened wing against the sky,

My heart will hear the nearing tread of Fall;

My steps grow slow, as flowers wait the frost;

I hear the tired song whippoorwill;

I see the silken spears of thistles lost

To winds that sweep down from the sumac hill;

And yet, no sadness fills the heart of me -

No sense of loss, no autumn tug of pain;

When skies burn blue above October sea,

When farmers reap the last gold field of grain;

When crickets sing, then sweet will be my rest

the harvest of my love against my breast.