Before the ripened field the reapers stand

Soon as the morning trembles o’er the sky,And unperceived unfolds the spreading day,Before the ripened field the reapers standIn fair array, each by the lass he loves,To bear the rougher part and mitigateBy nameless gentle offices her toil.At once they stoop, and swell the lusty sheaves;While through their cheerful band the rural talk,The rural scandal, and the rural jestFly harmless, to deceive the tedious timeAnd steal unfelt the sultry hours away.Behind the master walks, builds up the shocks,And, conscious, glancing oft on every sideHis sated eye, feels his heart heave with joy.The gleaners spread around, and here and there,Spike after spike, their sparing harvest pick.Be not too narrow, husbandmen! but flingFrom the full sheaf with charitable stealthThe liberal handful. Think, oh! grateful thinkHow good the God of harvest is to you,Who pours abundance o’er your flowing fields,While these unhappy partners of your kindWide-hover round you, like the fowls of heaven,And ask their humble dole. The various turnsOf fortune ponder; that your sons may wantWhat now with hard reluctance faint ye give.

From Thomson‘s Seasons (1730), ‘Autumn’