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IIOHAH no/lIiM 1,'IE.nepeioaaaE. Tl. BOH HIMTHR REAPERThrough the fields the reaper goesPiling sheaves on sheaves in rows;Hills, not sheaves, are these.Where he passes liowls the earth,Howl the echoing1seas.All the night the reaper reaps,Never stays his hand nor sleeps,Reaping endlessly;Whets his blade and passes on . . .Hush, and let him be.Hush, be cares not how men writheWith naked hands against the scythe.Wouldst thou hide in field or town?Where thou art, there he will come;He will reap thee down.Serf and landlord, great and small;Friendless wandering singer, — all,All shall swell the sheaves that growTo mountains; even the Tzar shall go.And me too the scythe shall findCowering alone behindBars of iron; swift and blind,Strike, and pass, and leave me, starkAnd forgotten in the dark.E18471E. L. Voynich53