Poem by Henry Thoreau

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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.

1. Let Such Pure Hate Still Underprop
2. What's the Railroad to Me?
3. The Inward Morning
4. Indeed Indeed, I Cannot Tell
5. Pray to What Earth Does This Sweet Cold Belong

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