WITH swords agleam and guns aflame--
In troop and squadron and platoon--
At harvest-home the Reapers came,
Under the waning harvest moon.
Their sickle neither paused at Dark,
Nor idled in the fervent noon :
Their sheaves lay livid, cold, and stark,
Under the dwindling harvest moon.
Benignly, without stint or dearth,
Nature had given her annual boon,
And crowned with gold the feastful Earth,
Under the golden harvest moon.
Man only--learning, all too well,
Her deadlier secrets bared too soon--
Poured, from new phials, old Death and Hell,
Under the dying harvest moon.
