THE GOLDEN HOUR
Of all the year this is the most golden hour! As the farmer at the end of the season realizes the fruits of his labors and receives their price, so the season comes in a gold to which all is transmuted, in the sky and on the earth. I wander through the lanes of the harvest, up to the neck in gold; I rest my chin on the table of the field which flashes in the sunlight to its farthest boundary. Going toward the mountains, I surmount a sea of grain. Between the banks of harvest, the immense, dry flame of the morning-colored plain, where is the old dim earth? Water is changed into wine; oranges gleam in the silent branches. All is ripe; grain and straw, and the fruit with the leaf. It is indeed golden. All is finished, and I see that all is true. In the fervent effort of the year all color has evaporated. Suddenly, to my eyes, the earth is like a sun. Let me not die before the golden hour!