THE BREATHING SPELL.
As some lone reaper, tanned and sore,
Doth pause to glance his acres o’er,
Comparing what hath passed his hands
With what before him bristling stands—
Behind him lie the shocks and sheaves,
While like a sea before him heaves,
Far over valley, hill and plain,
The waving heads of waiting grain—
So pause I now, when half way through
This growing book, my task to view;
Behind lie many a sketch and line;
Before me, countless pages shine;
Behind, the thoughts are shaped and bound;
Before, they float in freedom round.
And as that reaper stoops again
To throw his hook around the grain,
And sinks amid the sea of gold,
To rise when hands no longer hold;
So bend I to my task anew,
And undismayed my course pursue,
’Till clip on clip, and sheaf on sheaf,
Shall bear me to the farthest leaf.