The valley thick with corn
The sun, pale as a moon, sinks between
two rounded hillocks. The cattle low,
wending their slow way home.
All is tranquil. Birds talk softly
in the upland trees. The harvest
is mostly gathered in.
Bearded, in antique dress,
the bard lies propped on his elbow
in a field, absorbed in reading.
A cushion circles his head like a globe.
All round him, tall stems of corn
bend heavily in the ripeness.
In this place of plenty and sabbath ease
the stooks are heavy, rich with grain.
Sheep are drinking at a hidden stream.
The light of paradise shines over all.
Labour’s reward is an eternity of rest:
in this valley no shadow of death will fall.