Wagner, The Harvest is the End of the World and the Reapers Are the Angels (1984, Private Collection).

Where mountains round a lonely dale
Our cottage-roof inclose,
Come night or morn, the hissing pail
With yellow cream o’erflows;
And roused at break of day from sleep,
And cheerly trudging hither, –
A scythe-sweep,and a scythe-sweep,
We mow the grass together.

The fog drawn up the mountain side
And scatter’d flake by flake,
The chasm of blue above grows wide,
And richer blue the lake;
Gay sunlights o’er the hillocks creep,
And join for golden weather,-
A scythe-sweep, and a scythe-sweep,
We mow the dale together.

The good wife stirs at five, we know,
The master soon comes round
And many swaths must lie a-row
Ere breakfast-horn shall sound;
The clover and the florin deep,
The grass of silvery feather,-
A scythe-sweep, and a scythe-sweep,
We mow the dale together.

The noontide brings it a welcome rest
Our toil-wet brows to dry;
Anew with merry stave and jest
The shrieking hone we ply.
White falls the brook from steep to steep
Among the purple heather,-
A scythe-sweep, and a scythe-sweep,
We mow the dale together.

For dial, see, our shadows turn;
Low lies the stately mead:
A scythe, an hourglass, and an urn-
All flesh is grass, we read.
To-morrow’s sky may laugh or weep,
To Heav’n we leave it whether,-
A scythe-sweep, and a scythe-sweep,
We’ve done our task together.

 

https://theheartthrills.files.wordpress.com/2014/01/bruegel-the-corn-harvest-august.jpg?w=812&h=581

Bruegel, The Harvesters (1565, Met).

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