So there?s my year, the twelvemonth duly told
Since last I climbed this brow and gloated
round
Upon the lands heaped with their wheaten
gold,
And now again they spread with wealth
imbrowned ?
 And thriftless I meanwhile,
What honeycombs have I to take, what
sheaves to pile?
I see some shrivelled fruits upon my tree,
And gladly would self-kindness feign them
sweet;
The bloom smelled heavenly, can these
stragglers be
The fruit of that bright birth and this wry wheat,
 Can this be from those spires
Which I, or fancy, saw leap to the spring sun?s
fires?
I peer, I count, but anxious is not rich,
My harvest is not come, the weeds run high;
Even poison-berries, ramping from the ditch
Have stormed the undefended ridges by;
 What Michaelmass is mine!
The fields I sought to serve, for sturdier tillage
pine.
But, hush ? Earth?s valleys sweet in leisure lie;
And I among them wandering up and down
Will taste their berries, like the bird or fly,
And of their gleanings make both feast and
crown.
 The Sun?s eye laughing looks.
And Earth accuses none that goes among her
stooks.