On fields o'er which the reaper's hand has pass'd
Lit by the harvest moon and autumn sun,
My thoughts like stubble floating in the wind
And of such fineness as October airs,
There after harvest could I glean my life
A richer harvest reaping without toil,
And weaving gorgeous fancies at my will
In subtler webs than finest summer haze.

Added: on April 3rd, 2007 at 4:30 PM | Viewed: 4788 times | Comments (1)

Poet: Henry David Thoreau (Henry David Thoreau Art)
Poem: On Fields O'er Which the Reaper's Hand has Passed

Are you looking for more information on this poem? Perhaps you are trying to analyze it? The poem, On Fields O'er Which the Reaper's Hand has Passed, has received one comment so far. Click here to read it, and perhaps post a comment of your own. Of course you can also always discuss poems by Henry David Thoreau with others on the American Poems poetry forum!