The master’s hand rests on the arm
Of the chair that dry and warm
Sits by the hearth within the house
That reigns over the little farm.
And on that throne he rests awhile,
To his face there comes a smile
As to his nose now wafts the scent
Of pie cooling on kitchen tile.
The first fruit of the harvest gourds
Now fills up all the cupboard boards
Steamed and peeled and cubed and canned
‘Til plowshares are made out of swords
Or gathered to the porch and sill
To show that he has all his fill
And tell the costumed begging child
The sweet largesse is all his will.
The fields beyond escape his thought
Culled and cold, he’ll know them not
‘Til melting frost has called him forth
To churn to soil the autumn rot.
Out in the fields, out of his sight
One perfect gourd shines orange-bright,
A fiery coal amidst the ash
Of weeds blanched to a harvest white.
I wonder as I note its size—
Its smooth, full flesh should be a prize
For pastry or a fresh-cut face
With grinning mouth and glowing eyes—
How did the master of this field
Fail to bring in so rich a yield
And leave it here to rot to earth
Until the snows its grave have sealed?
The mystery of his election—
To leave ungleaned this choice selection—
Renders opaque his motives and taste;
What else has suffered his rejection?